Of all that he had said, only one word had penetrated the heart of Oswald, and that was the recollection of his mother, and his father's profound attachment to her. He had lost her when he was only fourteen years of age, but he recollected her virtues with the most heart-felt reverence, as well as that timidity and reserve which characterised them.—"Fool that I am," cried he, when alone, "I wish to know what kind of wife my father destined for me, and do I not know it, since I can call to mind the image of my mother whom he so tenderly loved? What do I want more? Why deceive myself in feigning ignorance of what would be his sentiments now, were it in my power to consult his will?" It was, however, a terrible task for Oswald to return to Corinne, after what had passed the evening before, without saying something in confirmation of the sentiments which he had expressed. His agitation and his trouble became so violent, that they affected a ruptured blood-vessel which he thought had completely healed up, but which now re-opened and began to bleed afresh. Whilst his servants, in affright, called everywhere for assistance, he secretly wished that the end of life might terminate his sufferings.—"If I could die," said he, "after having seen Corinne once more, after having heard her again call me her Romeo!"—Tears rolled down his cheeks; they were the first tears he had shed for the sake of another since the death of his father.

He wrote to Corinne informing her of his accident, and some melancholy words terminated his letter. Corinne had begun this day under the most deceitful auspices: happy in the impression she conceived she had made upon Oswald, believing herself beloved, she was happy; nor did busy thought conjure up any reflection not in unison with what she so much desired. A thousand circumstances ought to have mingled considerable fear with the idea of espousing Lord Nelville; but as there was more passion than foresight in her character, governed by the present, and not diving into the future, this day, which was to cost her so many pangs, dawned upon her as the most pure and serene of her life.

On receiving Oswald's note, her soul was a prey to the most cruel feelings: she believed him in imminent danger, and set out immediately on foot, traversing the Corso at the hour when all the city were walking there, and entered the house of Oswald in face of all the first society of Rome. She had not taken time to reflect, and had walked so fast, that when she reached the chamber, she could not breathe, or utter a single word. Lord Nelville conceived all that she had risked to come and see him, and exaggerating the consequences of this action, which in England would have entirely ruined the reputation of an unmarried woman, he felt penetrated with generosity, love, and gratitude, and rising up, feeble as he was, he pressed Corinne to his heart, and cried:—"My dearest love! No, I never will abandon you! After having exposed yourself on my account! When I ought to repair—" Corinne comprehended what he would say, and as she gently disengaged herself from his arms, interrupted him thus, having first enquired how he was:—"You are deceived, my lord; in coming to see you I do nothing that most of my countrywomen would not do in my place. I knew you were ill—you are a stranger here—you know nobody but me; it is therefore my duty to take care of you. Were it otherwise, ought not established forms to yield to those real and profound sentiments, which the danger or the grief of a friend give birth to? What would be the fate of a woman if the rules of social propriety, permitting her to love, forbade that irresistible emotion which makes us fly to succour the object of our affection? But I repeat to you, my lord, you need not be afraid that I have compromised myself by coming hither. My age and my talents allow me, at Rome, the same liberty as a married woman. I do not conceal from my friends that I am come to see you. I know not whether they blame me for loving you; but that fact admitted, I am certain that they do not think me culpable in devoting myself entirely to you."

On hearing these words, so natural and so sincere, Oswald experienced a confused medley of different feelings. He was moved with the delicacy of Corinne's answer; but he was almost vexed that his first impression was not just. He could have wished that she had committed some great fault in the eyes of the world, in order that this very fault, imposing upon him the duty of marrying her, might terminate his indecision. He was offended at this liberty of manners in Italy, which prolonged his anxiety by allowing him so much happiness, without annexing to it any condition. He could have wished that honour had commanded what he desired, and these painful thoughts produced new and dangerous effects. Corinne, notwithstanding the dreadful alarm she was in, lavished upon him the most soothing attentions.

Towards the evening, Oswald appeared more oppressed; and Corinne, on her knees by the side of his bed, supported his head in her arms, though she was herself racked with more internal pain than he. This tender and affecting care made a gleam of pleasure visible through his sufferings.—"Corinne," said he to her, in a low voice, "read in this volume, which contains the thoughts of my father, his reflections on death. Do not think," he continued, seeing the terror of Corinne; "that I feel myself menaced with it. But I am never ill without reading over these consoling reflections. I then fancy that I hear them from his own mouth; besides, my love, I wish you to know what kind of man my father was; you will the better comprehend the cause of my grief, and of his empire over me, as well as all that I shall one day confide to you."—Corinne took this manuscript, which Oswald never parted from, and in a trembling voice read the following pages.

"Oh ye just, beloved of the Lord! you can speak of death without fear; for you it is only a change of habitation, and that which you quit is perhaps the least of all! Oh numberless worlds, which in our sight fill the boundless region of space! unknown communities of God's creatures; communities of His children, scattered throughout the firmament and ranged beneath its vaults, let our praises be joined to yours! We are ignorant of your condition, whether you possess the first, second, or last share of the generosity of the Supreme Being; but in speaking of death or of life, of time past or of time to come, we assimilate our interests with those of all intelligent and sensible beings, no matter where placed, or by what distance separated from us. Families of peoples! Families of nations! Assemblage of worlds! you say with us, Glory to the Master of the Heavens, to the King of Nature, to the God of the Universe! Glory and homage to Him, who by his will can convert sterility into abundance, shadow into reality, and death itself into eternal life.

"Undoubtedly the end of the just is a desirable death; but few amongst us, few amongst our forefathers have witnessed it. Where is the man who could approach without fear the presence of the Eternal? Where is the man who has loved God unremittingly, who has served Him from his youth, and who, attaining an advanced age, finds in his recollections no subject of uneasiness? Where is the man, moral in all his actions, without ever thinking of the praise and the reward of public opinion? Where is that man, so rare among the human species, who is worthy to serve as a model to all? Where is he? Where is he? Ah! if he exist amongst us, let our reverence and respect surround him; and ask, you will do wisely to ask, to be present at his death, as at the sublimest of earthly spectacles: only arm yourself with courage to follow him to that bed, so repulsive to our feelings, from which he will never rise. He foresees it; he is certain of it; serenity reigns in his countenance, and his forehead seems encircled with a celestial aureole: he says, with the apostle, I know in whom I have believed; and this confidence animates his countenance, even when his strength is exhausted. He already contemplates his new country, but without forgetting that which he is about to quit: he gives himself up to his Creator and to his God, without forgetting those sentiments which have charmed him during his life.

"Is it a faithful spouse, who according to the laws of nature must be the first of all his connections to follow him: he consoles her, he dries her tears, he appoints a meeting with her in that abode of felicity of which he can form no idea without her. He recalls to her mind those happy days which they have spent together; not to rend the heart of a tender friend, but to increase their mutual confidence in the goodness of heaven. He also reminds the companion of his fortunes, of that tender love which he has ever felt for her; not to give additional poignancy to that grief which he wishes to assuage, but to inspire her with the sweet idea that two lives have grown upon the same stalk; and that by their union they will become an additional defence to each other in that dark futurity where the pity of the Supreme God is the last refuge of our thoughts. Alas! is it possible to form a just conception of all the emotions which penetrate a loving soul at the moment when a vast solitude presents itself to our eyes, at the moment when the sentiments, the interests upon which we have subsisted during so many smiling years, are about to vanish for ever? Ah! you who are to survive this being like unto yourself whom heaven had given you for your support; that being who was every thing to you, and whose looks bid you an agonizing adieu, you will not refuse to place your hand upon an expiring heart, in order that its last palpitation may still speak to you when all other language has failed! And shall we blame you, faithful pair, if you had desired that your mortal remains should be deposited in the same resting place? Gracious God, awaken them together; or if one of them only has merited that favour, if only one of them must join the small number of the elect, let the other be informed of it; let the other perceive the light of angels at the moment when the fate of the happy shall be proclaimed, in order that he may possess one moment of joy before he sinks into eternal night.

"Ah! perhaps we wander when we endeavour to describe the last days of the man of sensibility, of the man who beholds death advance with hasty strides, who sees it ready to separate him from all the objects of his affection.

"He revives, and regains a momentary strength in order that his last words may serve for the instruction of his children. He says to them—'Do not be afraid to witness the approaching end of your father, of your old friend.—It is in obedience to a law of nature that he quits before you, this earth which he entered first. He teaches you courage, and nevertheless he leaves you with grief. He would certainly have wished to assist you a little longer with his experience—to walk a little longer side by side with you through all those perils with which your youth is surrounded; but life has no defence in the hour allotted for our descent to the tomb. You will now live alone in the midst of a world from which I am about to disappear; may you reap in abundance the gifts which Providence has sown in it; but do not forget that this world itself is only a transient abode, and that you are destined for another more permanent one. We shall perhaps see one another again; and in some other region, in the presence of my God, I shall offer for you as a sacrifice, my prayers and my tears! Love then religion, which is so rich in promise! love religion, the last bond of union between fathers and their children, between death and life!—Approach, that I may behold you once more! May the benediction of a servant of God light on you!'—He dies!—O, heavenly angels, receive his soul, and leave us upon earth the remembrance of his actions, of his thoughts, and of his hopes!"[25]

The emotion of Oswald and Corinne had frequently interrupted this reading. At length they were obliged to give it up. Corinne feared for the effects of Oswald's grief, which vented itself in torrents of tears, and suffered the bitterest pangs at beholding him in this condition, not perceiving that she herself was as much afflicted as he. "Yes," said he, stretching his hand to her, "dear friend of my heart, thy tears are mingled with mine. Thou lamentest with me that guardian angel, whose last embrace I yet feel, whose noble look I yet behold; perhaps it is thou whom he has chosen for my comforter—perhaps—" "No, no," cried Corinne; "he has not thought me worthy of it." "What is it you say?" interrupted Oswald. Corinne was alarmed at having revealed what she so much wished to conceal, and repeated what had escaped her, in another form, saying—"He would not think me worthy of it!"—This phrase, so altered, dissipated the disquietude which the first had excited in the heart of Oswald, and he continued, undisturbed by any fears, to discourse with Corinne concerning his father.

The physicians arrived and dissipated somewhat the alarm of Corinne; but they absolutely forbade Lord Nelville to speak till the ruptured blood-vessel was perfectly closed. For a period of six whole days Corinne never quitted Oswald, and prevented him from uttering a word, gently imposing silence upon him whenever he wished to speak. She found the art of varying the hours by reading, music, and sometimes by a conversation of which the burden was supported by herself alone; now serious, now playful, her animation of spirits kept up a continual interest. All this charming and amiable attention concealed that disquietude which internally preyed upon her, and which it was so necessary to conceal from Lord Nelville; though she herself did not cease one instant to be a martyr to it. She perceived almost before Oswald himself what he suffered, nor was she deceived by the courage he exerted to conceal it; she always anticipated everything that would be likely to relieve him; only endeavouring to fix his attention as little as possible upon her assiduous cares for him. However, when Oswald turned pale, the colour would also abandon the lips of Corinne; and her hands trembled when stretched to his assistance; but she struggled immediately to appear composed, and often smiled when her eyes were suffused with tears. Sometimes she pressed the hand of Oswald against her heart, as if she would willingly impart to him her own life. At length her cares succeeded, and Oswald recovered.

"Corinne," said he to her, as soon as he was permitted to speak: "why has not Mr Edgermond, my friend, witnessed the days which you have spent by my bedside? He would have seen that you are not less good than admirable; he would have seen that domestic life with you is a scene of continual enchantment, and that you only differ from every other woman, by adding to every virtue the witchery of every charm. No, it is too much—this internal conflict which rends my heart, and that has just brought me to the brink of the grave, must cease. Corinne, thou shalt know my secrets though thou concealest from me thine—and thou shalt decide upon our fate."—"Our fate," answered Corinne, "if you feel as I do, is never to part. But will you believe me that, till now, I have not dared even entertain a wish to be your wife. What I feel is very new to me: my ideas of life, my projects for the future, are all upset by this sentiment, which every day disturbs and enslaves me more and more. But I know not whether we can, whether we ought to be united!"— "Corinne," replied Oswald, "would you despise me for having hesitated? Would you attribute that hesitation to trifling considerations? Have you not divined that the deep and sad remorse which for two years has preyed upon me, could alone cause my indecision?"

"I have comprehended it," replied Corinne; "had I suspected you of a motive foreign to the affections of the heart, you would not have been he whom I loved. But life, I know, does not entirely belong to love. Habits, recollections, and circumstances, create around us a sort of entanglement that passion itself cannot destroy. Broken for a moment, it will join again, and encircle our heart as the ivy twines round the oak. My dear Oswald, let us not appropriate to any epoch of our existence more than that epoch demands. Nothing is now so absolutely necessary to my happiness as that you should not leave me. The terror of your sudden departure pursues me incessantly. You are a stranger in this country, and bound to it by no tie. Should you go, all my prospects would fade,—you would leave your poor Corinne nothing but her grief. This beautiful climate, these fine arts, that poetical inspiration which I feel with you, and now, alas! with you alone, would for me become mute. I never awake but trembling; when I behold the god of day, I know not whether it deceives me by its resplendent beams, ignorant as I am whether this city still contains you within its walls—you, the star of my life! Oswald, remove this terror from my soul, and I will desire to know nothing beyond the delightful security you will give me."—"You know," replied Oswald, "that an Englishman can never abandon his native country, that war may recall me, that—" "Oh, God!" cried Corinne, "are you going to prepare me for the dreadful moment?" and she trembled in every limb, as at the approach of some terrible danger.—"Well, if it be so, take me with you as your wife—as your slave—" But, suddenly recovering herself, she said—"Oswald, you will not go without giving me previous notice of your departure, will you? Hear me: in no country whatever, is a criminal conducted to execution without some hours being allotted for him to collect his thoughts. It will not be by letter that you will announce this to me—but you will come yourself in person—you will hear me before you go far away! And shall I be able then—What, you hesitate to grant my request?" cried Corinne. "No," replied he, "I do not hesitate; since it is thy wish, I swear that should circumstances require my departure, I will apprize thee of it beforehand, and that moment will decide the fate of our future lives."—She then left the room.

FOOTNOTE:

[25] I have taken the liberty here to borrow some passages of the Discourse on Death, which is to be found in the Cours de Morale Religieuse, by M. Necker. This work, which appeared in times when the attention was engrossed by political events, is sometimes confounded with another by the same author, called l'Importance des Opinions Religieuses, which has had the most brilliant success. But I dare affirm, that the former is my father's most eloquent work. No minister of state, I believe, before him, ever composed works for the Christian pulpit; and that which ought to characterise this kind of writing from a man who has had so much dealings with his race, is a knowledge of the human heart, and the indulgence which this knowledge inspires: it appears then, that considered in these two points of view, the Cours de Morale, is perfectly original. Religious men in general do not mix in the world, and men of the world for the most part, are not religious: where then would it be possible to find to such a degree, knowledge of life united to the elevation which detaches us from it? I will assert without being afraid that my opinion will be attributed to my feelings, that this book ranks among the first of those which console the sensible being, and interest minds which reflect on the great questions that the soul incessantly agitates within us.



Chapter ii.

During those days which immediately followed the illness of Oswald, Corinne carefully avoided any thing that might lead to an explanation between them. She wished to render life as calm as possible; but she would not yet confide her history to him. All her remarks upon their different conversations, had only served to convince her too well of the impression he would receive in learning who she was, and what she had sacrificed; and nothing appeared more dreadful to her than this impression, which might detach him from her.

Returning then to the amiable artifice with which she had before prevented Oswald from abandoning himself to passionate disquietudes, she desired to interest his mind and his imagination anew, by the wonders of the fine arts which he had not yet seen, and by this means retard the moment when their fate should be cleared up and decided. Such a situation would be insupportable, governed by any other sentiment than that of love; but so much is it in the power of love to sweeten every hour, to give a charm to every minute, that although it need an indefinite future, it becomes, intoxicated with the present, and is filled every day with such a multitude of emotions and ideas that it becomes an age of happiness or pain!

Undoubtedly it is love alone that can give an idea of eternity; it confounds every notion of time; it effaces every idea of beginning and end; we believe that we have always loved the object of our affection; so difficult is it to conceive that we have ever been able to live without him. The more dreadful separation appears, the less it seems probable; it becomes, like death, a fear which is more spoken of than believed—a future event which seems impossible, even at the very moment we know it to be inevitable.

Corinne, among her innocent stratagems to vary the amusements of Oswald, had still in reserve the statues and the paintings. One day therefore, when Oswald was perfectly restored, she proposed that they should go together to see the most beautiful specimens of painting and sculpture that Rome contains. "It is a reproach," said she to him, smiling, "not to be acquainted with our statues and our pictures; so to-morrow we will commence our tour of the museums and the galleries."—"It is your wish," answered Nelville, "and I agree. But in truth, Corinne, you have no need of these foreign resources to retain me; on the contrary, it is a sacrifice that I make whenever I turn my eyes from you to any object whatever."

They went first to the Museum of the Vatican, that palace of statues where the human figure is deified by Paganism, in the same manner as the sentiments of the soul are now by Christianity. Corinne directed the observation of Lord Nelville to those silent halls, where the images of the gods and the heroes are assembled, and where the most perfect beauty seems to enjoy itself in eternal repose. In contemplating these admirable features and forms, the intentions of the Deity towards man, seems, I know not how, to be revealed by the noble figure which He has been pleased to give him. The soul is uplifted by this contemplation to hopes full of enthusiasm and virtue; for beauty is one and the same throughout the universe, and under whatever form it presents itself, it always excites a religious emotion in the heart of man. What poetic language, there is in those countenances where the most sublime expression is for ever imprinted,—where the grandest thoughts are clad with an image so worthy of them!

In some instances, an ancient sculptor only produced one statue during his life—it was his whole history.—He perfected it every day: if he loved, if he was beloved, if he received from nature or the fine arts any new impression, he adorned the features of his hero with his memories and affections: he could thus express to outward eyes all the sentiments of his soul. The grief of our modern times, in the midst of our cold and oppressive social conditions, contains all that is most noble in man; and in our days, he who has not suffered, can never have thought or felt. But there was in antiquity, something more noble than grief—an heroic calm—the sense of conscious strength, which was cherished by free and liberal institutions. The finest Grecian statues have hardly ever indicated anything but repose. The Laocoon and Niobe are the only ones which paint violent grief and pain; but it is the vengeance of heaven which they represent, and not any passion born in the human heart; the moral being was of so sound an organization among the ancients, the air circulated so freely in their deep bosoms, and the order politic was so much in harmony with their faculties, that troubled minds hardly ever existed then, as at the present day. This state causes the discovery of many fine ideas, but does not furnish the arts, particularly sculpture, with those simple affections, those primitive elements of sentiment, which can alone be expressed by eternal marble. Hardly do we find any traces of melancholy; a head of Apollo, at the Justinian palace, another of the dying Alexander, are the only ones in which the thoughtful and suffering dispositions of the soul are indicated; but according to all appearances they both belong to the time when Greece was enslaved. Since that epoch, we no longer see that boldness, nor that tranquillity of soul, which among the ancients, has produced masterpieces of sculpture, and poetry composed in the same spirit.

That thought which has nothing to nourish it from without, turns upon itself, analyses, labours, and dives into every inward sentiment; but it has no longer that creative power which supposes happiness, and that plenitude of strength which happiness alone can give. Even the sarcophagi, among the ancients, only recall warlike or pleasing ideas: in the multitude of those which are to be found at the museum of the Vatican, are seen battles and games represented in bas-relief on the tombs. The remembrance of living activity was thought to be the finest homage that could be rendered to the dead; nothing relaxed, nothing diminished strength. Encouragement and emulation were the principles of the fine arts as well as of politics; they afforded scope for every virtue, and for every talent. The vulgar gloried in knowing how to admire, and the worship of genius was served even by those who could not aspire to its rewards.

The religion of Greece was not, like Christianity, the consolation of misfortune, the riches of poverty, the future hope of the dying—it sought glory and triumph;—in a manner it deified man: in this perishable religion, beauty itself was a religious dogma. If the artists were called to paint the base and ferocious passions, they rescued the human form from shame, by joining to it, as in Fauns and Centaurs, some traits of the animal figure; and in order to give to beauty its most sublime character, they alternately blended in their statues (as in the warlike Minerva and in the Apollo Musagetus), the charms of both sexes—strength and softness, softness and strength; a happy mixture of two opposite qualities, without which neither of the two would be perfect.

Corinne, continuing her observations, retained Oswald some time before those sleeping statues which are placed on the tombs, and which display the art of sculpture in the most agreeable point of view. She pointed out to him, that whenever statues are supposed to represent an action, the arrested movement produces a sort of astonishment which is sometimes painful. But statues asleep, or merely in the attitude of complete repose, offer an image of eternal tranquillity which wonderfully accords with the general effect of a southern climate upon man. The fine arts appear there to be peaceful spectators of nature, and genius, which in the north agitates the soul of man, seems beneath a beautiful sky, only an added harmony.

Oswald and Corinne passed on to the hall where are collected together the sculptured images of animals and reptiles; and the statue of Tiberius is found, by chance, in the midst of this court. This assemblage is without design. Those statues appear to have ranged themselves of their own accord about their master. Another hall enclosed the dull and rigid monuments of the Egyptians; of that people whose statues resembled mummies more than men, and who by their silent, stiff, and servile institutions, seem to have assimilated as much as possible, life to death. The Egyptians excelled much more in the art of imitating animals than in representing men: the dominion of the soul seems to have been inaccessible to them.

After these come the porticos of the museum, where at each step is seen a new masterpiece. Vases, altars, ornaments of every kind, encircle the Apollo, the Laocoon, and the Muses. It is there that we learn to feel Homer and Sophocles: it is there that a knowledge of antiquity is awakened in the soul, which cannot be acquired elsewhere. It is in vain that we trust to the reading of history to comprehend the spirit of nations; what we see inspires us with more ideas than what we read, and external objects cause in us a strong emotion, which gives that living interest to the study of the past which we find in the observation of contemporary facts and events.

In the midst of these magnificent porticos, which afford an asylum to so many wonders of art, there are fountains, which, flowing incessantly, seem to tell us how sweetly the hours glided away two thousand years ago, when the artists who executed these masterpieces were yet alive. But the most melancholy impression which we experience at the Vatican, is in contemplating the remains of statues which are collected there: the torso of Hercules, heads separated from the trunks, and a foot of Jupiter, which indicates a greater and more perfect statue than any that we know. We fancy a field of battle before us, where time has fought with genius; and these mutilated limbs attest its victory, and our losses.

After leaving the Vatican, Corinne conducted him to the Colossi of Mount Cavallo; these two statues represent, as it is said, Castor and Pollux. Each of the two heroes is taming with one hand a fiery steed. These colossal figures, this struggle between man and the animal creation, gives, like all the works of the ancients, an admirable idea of the physical power of human nature. But this power has something noble in it, which is no longer found in modern society, where all bodily exercises are for the most part left to the common people. It is not merely the animal force of human nature, if I may use the expression, which is observable in these masterpieces. There seems to have been a more intimate union between the physical and moral qualities among the ancients, who lived incessantly in the midst of war, and a war almost of man to man. Strength of body and generosity of soul, dignity of features and boldness of character, loftiness of stature and commanding authority, were ideas almost inseparable, before a religion, entirely intellectual, had placed the power of man in his mind. The human figure, which was also the figure of the gods, appeared symbolical; and the nervous colossus of Hercules, as well as every other ancient statue of this sort, do not convey vulgar ideas of common life; but an omnipotent and divine will, which shews itself under the emblem of a supernatural physical force.

Corinne and Lord Nelville finished the day with a visit to the studio of Canova, the greatest modern sculptor. As it was late when they got there, they were shewn it by torch light; and statues improve much in their effect by being seen in this manner. The ancients appear to have been of this opinion, since they often placed them in their Thermae, where day could not enter. By the light of the flambeaux, the shadows being more full, the uniform lustre of the marble was softened, and the statues appeared as so many pale figures, possessing a more touching character of grace and life. There was, in the studio of Canova, an admirable statue destined for a tomb, which represented the genius of grief leaning upon a lion, the emblem of strength. Corinne, in contemplating the figure of grief, thought she discovered in it some resemblance to Oswald, and the artist himself was struck with it; Lord Nelville turned about to avoid this kind of notice; but he said in a low voice to his fair companion, "Corinne, I was condemned to a fate like that which is here represented, when I met with you; but you have changed my existence, and sometimes hope, and always an anxiety mixed with charm, fills that heart which was to suffer nothing but regret."



Chapter iii.

The masterpieces of painting were then all collected together at Rome, whose riches in this respect surpassed that of all the rest of the world. There could exist only one disputable point as to the effect produced by this collection, namely, whether the nature of the subjects chosen by the Italian artists, afford a scope for all the variety and all the originality of passion and character which painting can express? Oswald and Corinne were of contrary opinions in this respect; but this, like every other opposition of sentiment that existed between them, was owing to the difference of nation, climate, and religion. Corinne affirmed that the most favourable subjects for painting were religious ones[26]. She said that sculpture was a Pagan art, and painting a Christian one; and that in these arts were to be found, as in poetry, the distinguishing qualities of ancient and modern literature. The pictures of Michael Angelo, the painter of the Bible, and of Raphael, the painter of the Gospel, suppose as much profound thought, as much sensibility as are to be found in Shakespeare and Racine: sculpture can only present a simple, energetic existence, whilst painting indicates the mysteries of reflection and resignation, and makes the immortal soul speak through transient colours. Corinne maintained also that historical or poetical facts were rarely picturesque. In order to comprehend such subjects, it would often be necessary to preserve the practice of painters of old, and write the speech of each personage in a ribbon proceeding out of the mouth. But religious subjects are instantly understood by everybody, and attention is not removed from the picture to guess what it represents.

Corinne was of opinion that the expression of modern painters was often theatrical, and that it bore the stamp of their age, in which was no longer found, as in Andrea Mantegna, Perugino, and Leonardo da Vinci, the unity and simplicity which characterised the repose of the ancients; a repose to which is joined that profundity of sentiment which is the characteristic of Christianity. She admired the artless composition of Raphael's pictures, especially those in his first manner. All the figures are directed towards one principal object, without any contrivance on the part of the artist to group them in various attitudes in order to produce a laboured effect. Corinne said that this sincerity in the arts of the imagination, as well as in every other, is the true character of genius; and that studied efforts for fame are almost always destructive of enthusiasm. She maintained that there was rhetoric in painting as well as in poetry, and that all those who could not embody character called every accessory ornament to their aid, uniting rich costumes and remarkable attitudes to the attraction of a brilliant subject, whilst a single Virgin holding a child in her arms, an attentive old man in the Mass of Bolsena, a man leaning on his stick in the School of Athens, or Saint Cecilia with her eyes lifted up to heaven, produced the deepest effect by the expression of the countenance alone. These natural beauties increase every day more and more in our estimation; but on the contrary, in pictures done for effect, the first glance is always the most striking.

Corinne added to these reflections an observation which strengthened them: which was, that the religious sentiments of the Greeks and Romans, and the disposition of their minds, being in every respect absolutely foreign from ours, it is impossible for us to create according to their conceptions, or to build upon their ground. They may be imitated by dint of study; but how can genius employ all its energies in a work where memory and erudition are so necessary? It is not the same with subjects that belong to our own history and our own religion. Here the painter himself may be inspired; he may feel what he paints, and paint what he has seen. Life assists him to imagine life; but in transporting himself to the regions of antiquity, his invention must be guided by books and statues. To conclude, Corinne found that pictures from pious subjects, impart a comfort to the soul that nothing could replace; and that they suppose a sacred enthusiasm in the artist which blends with genius, renovates, revives, and can alone support him against the injustice of man and the bitterness of life.

Oswald received, in some respects, a different impression. In the first place, he was scandalized to see the Deity represented as he is by Michael Angelo, in human form and feature. It was his opinion that thought dare not give Him shape and figure, and that hardly at the very bottom of the soul could be found an idea sufficiently intellectual, sufficiently ethereal to elevate it to the Supreme Being; as to subjects taken from the Holy Scripture, it seemed to him that the expression and the images left much to be desired. He thought, with Corinne, that religious meditation is the most intimate sentiment that man can experience; and in this respect, it is that which furnishes the painter with the deepest mysteries of physiognomy and expression; but as religion represses every emotion which does not proceed immediately from the heart, the figures of the saints and martyrs cannot admit of much variety. The sentiment of humility, so noble in the face of heaven, weakens the energy of terrestrial passions and necessarily gives monotony to most religious subjects. When Michael Angelo applied his terrible genius to those subjects, he almost changed their essence by giving to his prophets a formidable expression of power more becoming a Jupiter than a Saint. He, like Dante, often avails himself of the images of Paganism and blends the heathen mythology with the Christian religion. One of the most admirable circumstances attending the establishment of Christianity, is the lowly estate of the apostles who have preached it, and the misery and debasement of the Jewish people, so long the depositaries of the promises that announced the coming of Christ. This contrast between the littleness of the means and the greatness of the result, is in a moral point of view, extremely fine; but in painting, which exhibits the means alone, Christian subjects must be less dazzling than those taken from the heroic and fabulous ages. Among the arts, music alone can be purely religious. Painting cannot be confined to so abstract and vague an expression as that of sound. It is true that the happy combination of colour, and of chiaro-oscuro produces, if it may be so expressed, a musical effect in painting; but as the latter represents life, it should express the passions in all their energy and diversity. Undoubtedly it is necessary to choose among historical facts, those which are sufficiently known not to require study in order to comprehend them; for the effect produced by painting ought to be immediate and rapid, like every other pleasure derived from the fine arts; but when historical facts are as popular as religious subjects, they have the advantage over them of the variety of situations and sentiments which they recall.

Lord Nelville thought also, that scenes of tragedy and the most moving poetical fictions, ought to claim a preference in painting, in order that all the pleasures of the imagination and of the soul might be united. Corinne combated this opinion, fascinating as it was. She was convinced that the encroachment of one art upon another was mutually injurious. Sculpture loses the advantages which are peculiar to it when it aspires to represent a group of figures as in painting; painting when it wishes to attain dramatic expression. The arts are limited in their means, though boundless in their effects. Genius seeks not to combat that which is in the essence of things; on the contrary, its superiority consists in discovering it.—"As for you, my dear Oswald," said Corinne, "you do not love the arts in themselves, but only on account of their relation with mind and feeling. You are only sensible to that which represents the sorrows of the heart. Music and poetry agree with this disposition; whilst the arts which speak to the eyes, though their signification be ideal, only please and interest us when the soul is tranquil and the imagination entirely free; nor do we require, in order to relish them, that gaiety which society inspires, but only the serenity which beautiful weather and a fine climate diffuse over the mind. We must be capable of feeling the universal harmony of nature in those arts which represent external objects; this is impossible when the soul is troubled, that harmony having been destroyed in us by calamity."—"I know not," replied Oswald, "whether my taste in the fine arts be confined to that alone which can recall the sufferings of the soul; but I know, at least, that I cannot endure the representation of physical pain. My strongest objection," continued he, "against Christian subjects in painting, is the painful sensations excited in me by the image of blood, wounds, and torture, notwithstanding the victims may have been animated by the noblest enthusiasm. Philoctetus is perhaps the only tragical subject in which bodily ills can be admitted. But with how many poetical circumstances are his cruel pangs surrounded? They have been caused by the arrows of Hercules. They will be healed by the son of AEsculapius. In short, the wound is almost confounded with the moral resentment produced in him who is struck, and cannot excite any impression of disgust. But the figure of the boy possessed with a devil, in Raphael's superb picture of the Transfiguration, is a disagreeable image, and in no way possesses the dignity of the fine arts. They must discover to us the charm of grief, as well as the melancholy of prosperity; it is the ideal part of human destiny which they should represent in each particular circumstance. Nothing torments the imagination more than bloody wounds and nervous convulsions. It is impossible in such pictures not to seek, and at the same time dread, to find the exactness of the imitation. What pleasure can we receive from that art which only consists in such an imitation; it is more horrible, or less beautiful than nature herself, the moment it only aspires to resemble her."

"You are right, my lord," said Corinne, "to wish that Christian subjects were divested of painful images; they do not require them. But confess, however, that genius, and the genius of the soul, can triumph over every thing. Behold that picture of the Communion of St Jerome, by Domenichino. The body of the dying saint is livid and gaunt: death has seized upon it; but in that look is eternal life, and every earthly misery seems produced here only to disappear before the pure lustre of a religious sentiment. However, dear Oswald," continued Corinne, "though I am not of your opinion in everything, I will shew you that even in differing from one another there is some analogy of sentiment between us. I have endeavoured to accomplish what you desire, in the gallery of pictures which has been furnished me by those artists who were of my acquaintance, among which are some designs of my own sketching. You will there see the defects and the advantages of those subjects which you prefer. This gallery is at my country seat at Tivoli. The weather is fine enough to visit it.—Shall we go thither to-morrow?" As she awaited Oswald's consent, he said to her: "My love, have you any doubt of my answer? Have I in this world, any other pleasure, any other thought, besides you? And is not my life, too free perhaps from any occupation, as from every interest, solely taken up with the happiness of seeing and hearing you?"

FOOTNOTE:

[26] In a journal entitled Europe, are to be found observations full of information on subjects relating to painting: from this journal I have extracted many of these reflections, which have just been read; Mr Frederic Schlegel is the author of it, and this writer, as well as the German thinkers in general, is an inexhaustible mine.



Chapter iv.

They set out therefore the next day for Tivoli. Oswald himself drove the four horses that drew them; he took pleasure in their swiftness, which seemed to increase the vivacity of thought and of existence; and such an impression is sweet by the side of the object we love. He performed the office of whip with the most extreme attention, for fear the slightest accident should happen to Corinne. He felt the duties of a protector which is the softest tie that binds man to woman. Corinne was not, like most women, easily terrified by the possible dangers of a journey; but it was so sweet to remark the solicitude of Oswald, that she almost wished to be frightened, to enjoy the pleasure of, hearing him cheer and comfort her.

That which gave Lord Nelville, as will be seen in the sequel, so great an ascendancy over the heart of his mistress, was the unexpected contrasts which gave a peculiar charm to his manners. Everybody admired his intellect and the gracefulness of his figure; but he must have been particularly interesting to one, who uniting in herself by a singular accord, constancy and mobility, took delight in impressions, at once various and faithful. Never did he think of anything but Corinne; and this very occupation of his mind incessantly assumed different characters: at one time he was governed by reserve, at another he was open and communicative: one moment he was perfectly calm, and another a prey to the most gloomy and bitter sensations, which proved the depth of his sentiments, but mingled anxiety with confidence and incessantly gave birth to new emotions. Oswald, internally agitated, endeavoured to assume an external appearance of composure, and Corinne, occupied in conjecturing his thoughts, found in this mystery a continual interest. One would have said, that the very defects of Oswald were only made to set off his agreeable qualities. No man, however distinguished, in whose character there was no contradiction, who was subject to no internal conflict, could have captivated the imagination of Corinne. She felt a sort of awe of Oswald, which subjected her to him. He reigned over her soul by a good and by an evil power; by his qualities, and by the disquietude which these qualities, badly combined, could inspire: in short there was no security in the happiness that Lord Nelville conferred, and perhaps the violence of Corinne's passion was owing to this; perhaps she could only love, to such a degree, him whom she feared to lose. A superior mind, a sensibility as ardent as it was delicate, might become weary of everything, except that truly extraordinary man, whose soul, constantly agitated, seemed like the sky—sometimes serene, sometimes covered with clouds. Oswald, always true, always of profound and impassioned feelings, was nevertheless often ready to renounce the object of his tenderness, because a long habit of mental pain made him believe, that only remorse and suffering could be found in the too exquisite affections of the heart.

Lord Nelville and Corinne, in their journey to Tivoli, passed before the ruins of Adrian's palace, and the immense garden which surrounded it. That prince had collected together in this garden, the most rare productions, the most admirable masterpieces of those countries which were conquered by the Romans. To this very day some scattered stones are seen there, which are called Egypt, India, and Asia. Farther on was the retreat, where Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra, ended her days. She did not support in adversity, the greatness of her destiny; she was incapable of dying for glory like a man; or like a woman, dying rather than betray her friend.

At length they discovered Tivoli, which was the abode of so many celebrated men, of Brutus, of Augustus, of Mecenas, and of Catullus; but above all, the abode of Horace, for it is his verse which has rendered this retreat illustrious. The house of Corinne was built over the noisy cascade of Teverone; at the top of the mountain, opposite her garden, was the temple of the Sybil. It was a beautiful idea of the ancients, to place their temples on the summits of high places. They majestically presided over the surrounding country, as religious ideas over all other thoughts. They inspired more enthusiasm for nature, by announcing the Deity from which she emanates, and the eternal gratitude of successive generations towards her. The landscape, from whatever point of view considered, formed a picture with the temple, which was placed there as the centre and the ornament of the whole. Ruins spread a singular charm over the campagna of Italy. They do not recall, like modern edifices, the labour and the presence of man; they are confounded with nature and the trees; they seem in harmony with the solitary torrent; they present the image of time, which has made them what they are. The most beautiful countries in the world, when they bring to mind no recollection, when they bear the stamp of no remarkable event, are stripped of interest when compared with historical countries. What place in Italy could be more suitable for the habitation of Corinne than the retreat consecrated to the sybil, to the memory of a woman, animated by divine inspiration. The house of Corinne was delightful; it was ornamented with the elegance of modern taste, and yet discovered the charm of an imagination enamoured of the beauties of antiquity; happiness, in the most elevated sense of the word, seemed to reign there; a felicity which consisted in all that ennobles the soul, excites thought, and vivifies talent.

In walking with Corinne, Oswald perceived that the wind possessed an harmonious sound, and filled the air with chords, which seemed to proceed from the waving of the flowers, and the rustling of the trees, and to give a voice to nature. Corinne told him that the wind produced this harmony from the aeolian harps, which she had placed in grottoes to fill the air with sound, as well as perfumes. In this delicious abode, Oswald was inspired with the purest sentiment.—"Hear me," said he to Corinne; "till this moment I felt the happiness I derived from your society blended with remorse; but now I say to myself, that you are sent by my father to terminate my sufferings upon this earth. It is he that I had offended; but it is, nevertheless, he who has obtained by his prayers my pardon in heaven. Corinne!" cried he, throwing himself upon his knees, "I am pardoned; I feel it in this sweet calm of innocence which pervades my soul. Thou canst now, without apprehension, unite thyself to me, nor fear that fate opposes our union."—"Well," said Corinne, "let us continue to enjoy this peace of the heart which is granted us. Let us not meddle with destiny: she inspires so much dread when we wish to interfere with her, when we try to obtain from her more than she will give! Since we are now happy, let us not desire a change!"



Lord Nelville was hurt at this answer of Corinne. He conceived she ought to comprehend that he was ready to tell her every thing, to promise every thing, if she would only confide to him her history; and this manner of avoiding it gave him as much offence as apprehension; he did not perceive that a sense of delicacy prevented Corinne from taking advantage of his emotion, to bind him by an oath. Perhaps also, it is in the nature of a profound and genuine passion, to dread a solemn moment, however much desired, and to tremble at exchanging hope for happiness itself. Oswald, far from judging in this manner, persuaded himself, that although Corinne loved him, she wished to preserve her independence, and intentionally deferred all that might lead to an indissoluble union. This thought excited in him a painful irritation, and immediately assuming a cold and reserved air, he followed Corinne to her gallery of pictures, without uttering a word. She soon divined the impression she had produced on him, but knowing his pride, she durst not impart to him her observations; however, in showing him her pictures and discussing general topics, she felt a vague hope of softening him, which gave to her voice a more moving charm, even when uttering the most indifferent words.

Her gallery was composed of historical pictures, paintings on poetical and religious subjects, and landscapes. None of them was composed of a very large number of figures. That style of painting undoubtedly presents greater difficulties, but affords less pleasure. Its beauties are too confused, or too minute. That unity of interest, which is the vital principle of the arts, as well as anything else, is necessarily divided and scattered. The first of the historical pictures represented Brutus, in profound meditation, seated at the foot of the statue of Rome. In the back ground, the slaves are carrying the lifeless bodies of his two sons, whom he had condemned to death; and on the other side of the picture, the mother and sisters appear plunged into an agony of grief: women are, happily, divested of that courage, which can triumph over the affections of the heart. The statue of Rome, placed by the side of Brutus, is a beautiful idea; it speaks eloquently. Yet how can any body know without an explanation, that it is the elder Brutus who has just sent his sons to execution? Nevertheless, it is impossible to characterise this event better than it is done in this picture. At a distance the city of Rome is perceived in its ancient simplicity, without edifices or ornaments, but full of patriotic grandeur, since it could inspire such a sacrifice.—"Undoubtedly," said Corinne, "when I have named Brutus, your whole soul will become fixed to this picture; but still it would be possible to behold it without divining the subject it represented. And does not this uncertainty, which almost always exists in historical pictures, mingle the torment of an enigma with the enjoyment of the fine arts, which ought to be so easy and so clear?

"I have chosen this subject because it recalls the most terrible action that love of country has inspired. The companion to this picture is Marius, spared by the Cimbrian, who cannot bring himself to kill this great man; the figure of Marius is imposing; the costume of the Cimbrian and the expression of his physiognomy, are very picturesque. It is the second epoch of Rome, when laws no longer existed, but when genius still exercised considerable influence upon circumstances. Then comes that era when talents and fame were only objects of misfortune and insult. The third picture which you see here, represents Belisarius, carrying on his shoulders the body of his young guide, who died while asking alms for him. Belisarius, blind and mendicant, is thus recompensed by his master; and in the universe which he has conquered, he is employed in bearing to the grave the remains of the poor boy who alone had not abandoned him. This figure of Belisarius is admirable; another so fine is not to be found in the modern school. The painter, with a truly poetical imagination, has united here every species of misfortune, and perhaps the picture is too dreadful even to awaken pity: but who tells us it is Belisarius? to indicate him it should be faithful to history: but that fidelity would deprive the subject of all its picturesque beauty. Following these pictures which represent in Brutus, virtues approaching to crime; in Marius, glory, the cause of calamity; in Belisarius, services paid by the blackest persecutions; in short, every misery of human destiny, which is recorded in the events of history, I have placed two pictures of the old school, which a little relieve the oppressed soul by recalling that religion which has consoled the enslaved and distracted universe, that religion which stirred the depths of the heart when all without was but oppression and silence. The first is by Albano; he has painted the infant Jesus sleeping on a cross. Behold the sweetness and calm of that countenance! What pure ideas it recalls; how it convinces the soul that celestial love has nothing to fear, either from affliction or death. The second picture is by Titian; the subject is Christ sinking beneath the weight of the cross. His mother comes to meet Him, and throws herself upon her knees on perceiving Him. Admirable reverence in a mother for the misfortunes and divine virtues of her son! What a look is that of our Redeemer, what a divine resignation in the midst of suffering, and in this suffering what sympathy with the heart of man! That is, doubtless, the finest of my pictures. It is that towards which I incessantly turn my eyes, without ever being able to exhaust the emotion which it inspires. Next come the dramatic pieces," continued Corinne, "taken from four great poets. Judge with me, my lord, of the effect which they produce. The first represents AEneas in the Elysian fields, when he wishes to approach Dido. The indignant shade retires, rejoiced that she no longer carries in her bosom that heart which would still beat with love at the aspect of her guilty paramour. The vapoury colour of the shades and the paleness of the surrounding scene, form a contrast with the life-like appearance of AEneas and of the sybil who conducts him. But this kind of effect is an amusement of the artist, and the description of the poet is necessarily superior to anything that painting can produce. I will say as much of this picture of Clorinda dying, and Tancred. The utmost pathos which it can excite, is to call to our minds the beautiful lines of Tasso, when Clorinda pardons her adoring enemy who has just pierced her breast. Painting necessarily becomes subordinate to poetry, when devoted to subjects which have been treated by great poets; for their words leave an impression which effaces every other; the situations which they have chosen almost ever derive their chief strength from the development of the passions and their eloquence, whilst the greater part of picturesque effects arises from a calm beauty, a simple expression, a noble attitude, a moment of repose, worthy of being indefinitely prolonged without ever wearying the eye.

"Your terrible Shakespeare, my lord," continued Corinne, "has furnished the subject of the third dramatic picture—it is Macbeth,—the invincible Macbeth—who, ready to fight Macduff, whose wife and children he has put to death, learns that the oracle of the witches is accomplished, that Birnam Wood is advancing to Dunsinane, and that he is fighting a man who was born after the death of his mother. Macbeth is conquered by fate, but not by his adversary.—He grasps the sword with a desperate hand;—he knows that he is about to die;—but wishes to try whether human strength cannot triumph over destiny. There is certainly in this head, a fine expression of wildness and fury—of trouble and of energy; but how many poetical beauties do we miss? Is it possible to paint Macbeth plunged in guilt by the spells of ambition, which offer themselves to him under the shape of witchcraft? How can painting express the terror which he feels? That terror, however, which is not inconsistent with intrepid bravery? Is it possible to characterise that peculiar species of superstition which oppresses him? That belief without dignity, that hell-born fatality which weighs him down, his contempt of life, his horror of death? Undoubtedly the human countenance is the greatest of mysteries; but the motionless physiognomy of a painting can never express more than the workings of a single sentiment. Contrasts, conflicts of the mind, events, in short, belong to the dramatic art. Painting can with difficulty render a succession of events: time and movement exist not for it.

"The Phedre of Racine has furnished the subject of the fourth picture," said Corinne, showing it to Lord Nelville.—"Hippolitus, in all the beauty of youth and innocence, repels the perfidious accusations of his step-mother; the hero, Theseus, still protects his guilty spouse, whom he encircles with his conquering arm. There is in the countenance of Phedre, a trouble which freezes the soul with horror; and her nurse, without remorse, encourages her in her guilt. Hippolitus in this picture is perhaps more beautiful than even in Racine; he resembles more the ancient Meleager, because no love for Aricia disturbs the impression of his wild and noble virtue; but is it possible to suppose that Phedre, in the presence of Hippolitus, can support her falsehood? Is it possible that she can behold him innocent and persecuted without falling at his feet? An offended woman may wrong the object of her affection in his absence; but when she sees him, her heart is wholly absorbed in love. The poet has never put Phedre and Hippolitus in the same scene after the former has calumniated the latter; the painter has been obliged to do so in order to bring together, as he has done in his picture, all the beauties of the contrast; but is not this a proof that there is such a difference between poetical and picturesque subjects that it would be better for the poets to write from pictures, than for the painters to compose their works from the poets? The history of the human mind proves to us that imagination must always precede thought."

Whilst Corinne was thus explaining her pictures to Lord Nelville, she had stopped several times, in the hope that he would speak to her; but his wounded soul did not betray itself by a single word; whenever she expressed a feeling idea he only sighed and turned his head, in order that she might not see how easily he was affected in his present state of mind. Corinne, overcome by this silence, sat down and covered her face with her hands—Lord Nelville for some time walked about the room with a hurried step, then approaching Corinne, was about to betray his feelings; but the invincible pride of his nature repressed his emotion, and he returned to the pictures as if he were waiting for Corinne to finish showing them. Corinne expected much from the effect of the last of all; and making an effort in her turn to appear calm, she arose and said, "My lord, I have yet three landscapes to show you—two of them are allied to very interesting ideas. I am not fond of those rustic scenes which are as dull in painting as idylls, when they make no allusion to fable or to history. I am most pleased with the manner of Salvator Rosa, who represents, as you see in this picture, a rock with torrents and trees, without a single living creature, without even a bird recalling an idea of life. The absence of man in the midst of natural scenes, excites deep reflection. What would the earth be in this state of solitude? A work without an aim; and yet a work so beautiful, the mysterious impression of which would be addressed to the Divinity alone!

"We are come at last to the two pictures in which, according to my opinion, history and poetry are happily blended with landscape[27]. One represents the moment when Cincinnatus is invited by the consuls to leave the plough, in order to take the command of the Roman armies. In this landscape you behold all the luxury of the South, its abundant vegetation, its burning sky, the smiling aspect of all nature, discoverable even in the plants themselves; and that other picture which forms a contrast with this, is the son of Cairbar asleep upon the tomb of his father.—For three days and three nights he has awaited the arrival of the bard who is to honour the memory of the dead. This bard is perceived at a distance descending the mountain; the shade of the father hovers in the clouds; the country is covered with hoar frost; the trees, though naked, are agitated by the wind, and their dead branches and dried leaves, still follow the current of the storm."

Till then, Oswald had been influenced by resentment at what had taken place in the garden; but on beholding this picture, the tomb of his father and the mountains of Scotland appeared to his mind, and his eyes were filled with tears. Corinne took her harp, and before this picture, began to sing one of those Scotch ballads whose simple notes seem to accompany the noise of the wind, mournfully complaining through the valleys. She sang the farewell of a warrior quitting his native land and his mistress; and the word, no more, one of the most harmonious and touching in the English language, was pronounced by Corinne with the most moving expression. Oswald sought not to resist his emotion, and both yielded without restraint to their tears.—"Ah!" cried Lord Nelville, "does my native country speak no language to thy heart? Wouldst thou follow me into those retreats, peopled by my recollections? Wouldst thou be the worthy companion of my life, as thou art its sole charm and delight?"—"I believe so," replied Corinne—"I believe so; for I love thee!"—"In the name of love then, no longer conceal anything from me," said Oswald.—"I consent," interrupted Corinne; "since it is thy wish. My promise is given; I only make one condition, which is, that thou wilt not exact it of me before the approaching epoch of our religious ceremonies. Will not the support of heaven be more than ever necessary to me at the moment when my fate is about to be decided?"—"No more," cried Lord Nelville, "if that fate depend upon me, it is no longer doubtful."—"Thou thinkest so," replied she; "I have not the same confidence; but, in a word, I intreat thee show that condescension to my weakness which I request."—Oswald sighed, without either granting or refusing the delay required.—"Let us now return to town," said Corinne. "How can I conceal anything from thee in this solitude? And if what I have to relate must divide us, ought I so soon—Let us go, Oswald—thou wilt return hither again, happen what may: my ashes will find rest here." Oswald, much affected, obeyed Corinne. He returned to the city with her, and scarcely a word passed between them upon the road. From time to time they looked at each other with an affection that said everything; but nevertheless, a sentiment of melancholy reigned in the depths of their souls when they arrived in the midst of Rome.

FOOTNOTE:

[27] The historical pictures which compose the gallery of Corinne, are either from copies or originals of the Brutus of David, the Maurius of Drouet, and the Belisarius of Gerard; among the other pictures mentioned, that of Dido was done by M. Rehberg, a German painter; that of Clorinda, is in the gallery of Florence; that of Macbeth, is in an English collection of pictures from Shakespeare; and that of Phedre, is by Guerin; lastly, the two landscapes of Cincinnatus and Ossian, are at Rome, and were done by Mr Wallis, an English painter.



Book ix.

THE POPULAR FESTIVAL, AND MUSIC.



Chapter i.

It was the last day of carnival, which is the most noisy festival of the year, when a fever of joy, a mania of amusement, unparalleled in any other country, seized the Roman people. Everybody is disguised; hardly does there remain at the windows, an unmasked spectator: the scene of gaiety commences at a given hour on a certain day, and scarcely ever does any public or private event of the year hinder any person from joining the sports of the season.

It is then that we can form a judgment of the extent of imagination possessed by the common people. The Italian language, even in their mouths, is full of charm. Alfieri said that he went to the public market at Florence to learn to speak good Italian,—Rome has the same advantages: and perhaps these are the only two cities in the world where the people speak so well that the mind may receive entertainment at every corner of the street.

That kind of humour which shines in the authors of harlequinades and opera-buffa, is very commonly found even among men without education. In these days of carnival, when extravagance and caricature are admitted, the most comic scenes take place between the masks.

Often a burlesque gravity is contrasted with the vivacity of the Italians; and one would say that these fantastic vestments inspired a dignity in the wearers, not natural to them; at other times, they manifest such a singular knowledge of mythology in their disguises, that we would be inclined to believe the ancient fables still popular in Rome; and more frequently they ridicule different gradations of society with a pleasantry full of force and originality. The nation appears a thousand times more distinguished in its sports than in its history. The Italian language yields to every shade of gaiety with a facility which only requires a light inflection of the voice and a little difference of termination in order to increase or diminish, ennoble or travesty, the sense of words. It is particularly graceful in the mouth of children[28]. The innocence of this age and the natural malice of the language, form an exquisite contrast. In truth, it may be said, that it is a language which explains itself without any aid and always appears more intellectual than he who speaks it.

There is neither luxury nor good taste in the feast of carnival; a kind of universal petulance makes it resemble the bacchanals of the imagination; but in imagination only is this resemblance, for the Romans are in general very sober, and except the last day of carnival, tolerably serious. We often make sudden discoveries of every sort in the character of the Italians, and this is what contributes to give them the reputation of being subtle and crafty.—There is, undoubtedly, a strong habit of dissimulation in this country, which has supported so many different yokes; but it is not to dissimulation that we must always attribute the rapid transition from one manner of being to another. An inflammable imagination is often the cause of it. The character of a people who are only rational or witty, may be easily understood and will not suddenly surprise us, but all that belongs to the imagination is unexpected. It leaps over intermediate barriers, it is often hurt at nothing, and frequently indifferent to that which ought most to affect it. In fact, it is a law unto itself, and we can never calculate its impressions from their causes.

For example, we cannot comprehend what amusement the Roman nobility find in riding in their carriages from one end of the corso to the other for whole hours together, as well during the carnival as on the other days of the year. Nothing ever diverts them from this custom. There are also among the masks, men who saunter about with every appearance of weariness, in the most ridiculous costume imaginable, and who—melancholy harlequins and silent punchinellos,—do not say a word the whole evening, but appear, if it may be so expressed, to have satisfied their carnival conscience by having neglected nothing to be merry.

We find at Rome a certain species of mask which is not seen elsewhere: masks formed after the figures of the ancient statues, and which at a distance imitate the most perfect beauty—the women often lose greatly by removing them. But nevertheless this motionless imitation of life, these stalking wax countenances, however pretty they may be, have something terrifying in them. The great nobles make a tolerably grand display of carriages on the last days of the carnival; but the pleasure of this festival is the crowd and the confusion: it seems like a relic of the Saturnalia; every class in Rome is mixed together. The most grave magistrates ride with official dignity in the midst of the masks; every window is decorated. The whole town is in the streets: it is truly a popular festival. The pleasure of the people consists neither in the shows nor the feasts that are given them, nor the magnificence they witness. They commit no excess either in drinking or eating: their recreation is to be set at liberty, and to find themselves among the nobility, who on their side are pleased at being among the people. It is especially the refinement and delicacy of amusements as well as the perfection of education, that places a barrier between different classes of people. But in Italy this distinction of rank is not very sensible; the country is more characterised by the natural talent and imagination of all, than by the extraordinary cultivation of the upper classes. There is therefore, pending carnival, a complete confusion of ranks, of manners, and of sentiments: the crowd, the cries, the wit, and the comfits with which they inundate without distinction the carriages as they pass along, confound every mortal together and set the nation pell-mell, as if social order no longer existed.

Corinne and Lord Nelville, both buried in thought, arrived in the midst of this tumult. They were at first almost stunned; for nothing appears more singular than this activity of noisy pleasures, when the soul is entirely absorbed in itself. They stopped at the Piazza del Popolo to ascend the amphitheatre near the obelisk, whence is seen the race course. At the moment they got out of their calash, the Count d'Erfeuil perceived them and took Oswald aside to speak to him.

"It is not right," said he, "to show yourself in this public manner, arriving from the country alone with Corinne; you will compromise her character, then what will you do?" "I do not think," answered Nelville, "that I compromise the character of Corinne by showing the attachment she inspires me with. But even were that true, I should be too happy if the devotion of my life—" "As to your being happy," interrupted the Count, "I do not believe it;" people can only be happy in acting becomingly. Society, think as you may, has much influence "upon our happiness, and we should never do what it disapproves."—"We should then never be guided by our own thoughts and our own feelings, but live entirely for society," replied Oswald. "If it be so, if we are constantly to imitate one another, to what purpose was a soul and an understanding given to each? Providence might have spared this superfluity."—"That is very well said," replied the Count, "very philosophically thought; but people ruin themselves by these kind of maxims, and when love is gone, the censure of opinion remains. I, who appear to possess levity, would never do any thing to draw upon me the disapprobation of the world. We may indulge in trifling liberties, in agreeable pleasantries which announce an independent manner of thinking, provided we do not carry it into action; for when it becomes serious—" "But the serious consequences are love and happiness," answered Lord Nelville.—"No, no;" interrupted the Count d'Erfeuil, "that is not what I wish to say; there are certain established rules of propriety, which one must not brave, on pain of passing for an eccentric man, a man—in fact, you understand me—for a man who is not like others."—Lord Nelville smiled, and without being in the least vexed; for he was by no means pained with these remarks; he rallied the Count upon his frivolous severity; he felt with secret satisfaction that for the first time, on a subject which caused him so much emotion, the Count did not possess the least influence over him. Corinne, at a distance, conjectured what was passing; but the smile of Nelville restored tranquillity to her heart, and this conversation of the Count d'Erfeuil, far from embarrassing Oswald or his fair companion, only inspired them with a temper of mind more in harmony with the scene before them.

The horse-racing was about to begin. Lord Nelville expected to see races like those of England; but what was his surprise, when informed that only little Barbary horses without riders were to run against each other. This sight excites the attention of the Romans in a singular manner. The moment it is about to commence, all the crowd arrange themselves on each side of the way. The Piazza del Popolo, which was covered with people, is empty in a moment. Each one ascends the amphitheatres which surround the obelisk, and innumerable multitudes of heads and dark eyes are turned towards the barrier from which the horses are to start.

They arrive without bridle or saddle, with merely a rich cloth thrown over their backs, and led by extremely well-dressed grooms, who take a most passionate interest in their success. The horses are placed behind the barrier and their ardour to clear it is extreme. At every moment they are held back; they prance, they neigh, they clatter with their feet, as if they were impatient of a glory which they are about to obtain themselves without the guidance of man. This impatience of the horses and the shouts of the grooms at the moment when the barrier falls, produce a fine dramatic effect. The horses start, the grooms cry "Stand back! Stand back!" with inexpressible transport. They accompany the horses with their voice and gestures till they are out of sight. The horses seem inspired with the same emulation as men. The pavement sparkles beneath their feet; their manes fly in the air, and their desire, thus left to their own efforts, of winning the prize is such, that there have been some who, on arriving at the goal, have died from the swiftness with which they have run. It is astonishing to see these freed horses thus animated with personal passions; it almost induces a belief that thought exists beneath this animal form. The crowd break their ranks when the horses are gone by, and follow them in disorder. They reach the Venetian palace which serves for the goal. Never was anything like the cries of the grooms whose horses are victors. He who had gained the first prize, threw himself on his knees before his horse[29], and thanked him, recommending him to the protection of St Anthony, the patron of animals, with an enthusiasm as serious as it was comic to the spectators.

It is generally the close of day when the races finish. Then commences another kind of amusement, much less picturesque, but also very noisy. The windows are illuminated. The guards abandon their post to mix in the general joy[30]. Each one then takes a little torch called a moccolo, and they seek mutually to extinguish each other's light, repeating the word ammazzare (kill) with a formidable vivacity. Che la Bella Principessa sia ammazata! Che il signore abbate sia ammazata! (Let the fair princess be killed, let the abbot be killed!) is shouted from one end of the street to the other. The crowd, become emboldened, because at this hour horses and carriages are forbidden, hurl themselves in all directions. At length there is no other pleasure than that of tumult and disorder. In the meantime night advances, the noise ceases by degrees—a profound silence succeeds, and there only remains of this evening the confused idea of a dream, in which the people had forgotten for a moment their labour, the learned their studies, and the nobility their idleness.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] I asked a little Tuscan girl which was the handsomer, she or her sister? "Ah!" answered she, "Il piu bel viso e il mio;"—Mine is the most beautiful face.

[29] An Italian postillion, whose horse was dying, prayed for him, saying. "O Sant' Antonio, abbiate pieta dell' anima sua;"—O Saint Anthony, have mercy on his soul!

[30] Goethe has a description of the carnival at Rome, which gives a faithful and animated picture of that festival.



Chapter ii.

Oswald, since his calamity, had not found spirits to seek the pleasure of music. He dreaded those ravishing strains so soothing to melancholy, but which inflict pain, when we are oppressed by real grief. Music awakens those bitter recollections which we are desirous to appease. When Corinne sang, Oswald listened to the words she uttered; he contemplated the expression of her countenance, it was she alone that occupied him; but if in the streets of an evening, several voices were joined, as it frequently happens in Italy, to sing the fine airs of the great masters, he at first endeavoured to listen, and then retired, because the emotion it excited, at once so exquisite and so indefinite, renewed his pain. However, there was a magnificent concert to be given in the theatre at Rome, which was to combine the talents of all the best singers. Corinne pressed Lord Nelville to accompany her to this concert, and he consented, expecting that his feelings would be softened and refined by the presence of her he loved.

On entering her box, Corinne was immediately recognised, and the remembrance of the Capitol adding to the interest which she usually inspired, the theatre resounded with applause. From every part of the house they cried, "Long live Corinne!" and the musicians themselves, electrified by this general emotion, began to play victorious strains; for men are led to associate triumph of every sort with war and battle. Corinne was intimately affected with these universal tokens of admiration and respect. The music, the applause, the bravos, and that indefinable impression, which a multitude of people expressing one sentiment always produces, awakened those feelings which, in spite of her efforts to conceal them, appeared in her eyes suffused with tears, and the palpitation of her heart equally visible. Oswald, jealous of this emotion, approached her, saying in a low voice,—"It would be a pity madam to snatch you from this brilliant popularity, it is certainly equal to love, since it produces the same effect in your heart."—Having spoken thus, he retired to the further end of the box without waiting for any reply. These words produced the most cruel agitation in the bosom of Corinne, and in a moment destroyed all the pleasure she received from these expressions of applause, which principally gave her delight because they were witnessed by Oswald.

The concert began—he who has not heard Italian singing can have no idea of music! Italian voices are so soft and sweet, that they recall at once the perfume of flowers, and the purity of the sky. Nature has destined the music for the climate: one is like a reflection of the other. The world is the work of one mind, expressed in a thousand different forms. The Italians, during a series of ages, have been enthusiastically fond of music. Dante, in his poem of purgatory, meets with one of the best singers of his age; being entreated, he sings one of his delicious airs, and the ravished spirits are lulled into oblivion of their sufferings, until recalled by their guardian angel. The Christians, as well as the pagans, have extended the empire of music beyond the grave. Of all the fine arts, it is that which produces the most immediate effect upon the soul. The others are directed to some particular idea; but this appeals to the intimate source of our existence, and entirely changes our inmost soul. What is said of Divine Grace, which suddenly transforms the heart, may humanly speaking be applied to the power of melody; and among the presentiments of the life to come, those which spring from music are not to be despised.

Even the gaiety which the comic music of Italy is so well calculated to excite, is not of that vulgar description which does not speak to the imagination. At the very bottom of the mirth which it excites, will be found poetical sensations and an agreeable reverie, which mere verbal pleasantry never could inspire. Music is so fleeting a pleasure, that it glides away almost at the same time we feel it, in such a manner, that a melancholy impression is mingled with the gaiety which it excites; but when expressive of grief, it also gives birth to a sweet sentiment. The heart beats more quickly while listening to it, and the satisfaction caused by the regularity of the measure, by reminding us of the brevity of time, points out the necessity of enjoying it. You no longer feel any void, any silence, around you; life is filled; the blood flows quickly; you feel within you that motion which gives activity to life, and you have no fear of the external obstacles with which it is beset.

Music redoubles the ideas which we possess of the faculties of the soul; when listening to it we feel capable of the noblest efforts. Animated by music, we march to the field of death with enthusiasm. This divine art is happily incapable of expressing any base sentiment, any artifice, any falsehood. Calamity itself, in the language of music, is stript of its bitterness; it neither irritates the mind nor rends the heart. Music gently raises that weight which almost constantly oppresses the heart when we are formed for deep and serious affections; that weight which sometimes becomes confounded with the very sense of our existence, so habitual is the pain which it causes. It seems to us in listening to pure and delectable sounds, that we are about to seize the secret of the Creator, and penetrate the mystery of life. No language can express this impression, for language drags along slowly behind primitive impressions, as prose translators behind the footsteps of poets. It is only a look that can give some idea of it; the look of an object you love, long fixed upon you, and penetrating by degrees so deeply into your heart, that you are at length obliged to cast down your eyes to escape a happiness so intense, that, like the splendour of another life, it would consume the mortal being who should presume stedfastly to contemplate it.

The admirable exactness of two voices perfectly in harmony produces, in the duets of the great Italian masters, a melting delight which cannot be prolonged without pain. It is a state of pleasure too exquisite for human nature; and the soul then vibrates like an instrument which a too perfect harmony would break. Oswald had obstinately kept at a distance from Corinne during the first part of the concert; but when the duet began, with faintly-sounding voices, accompanied by wind instruments, whose sounds were more pure than the voices themselves, Corinne covered her face with her handkerchief, entirely absorbed in emotion; she wept, but without suffering—she loved, and was undisturbed by any fear. Undoubtedly the image of Oswald was present to her heart; but this image was mingled with the most noble enthusiasm, and a crowd of confused thoughts wandered over her soul: it would have been necessary to limit these thoughts in order to render them distinct. It is said that a prophet traversed seven different regions of heaven in a minute. He who could thus conceive all that an instant might contain, must surely have felt the sublime power of music by the side of the object he loved. Oswald felt this power, and his resentment became gradually appeased. The feelings of Corinne explained and justified everything; he gently approached her, and Corinne heard him breathing by her side in the most enchanting passage of this celestial music. It was too much—the most pathetic tragedy could not have excited in her heart so much sensation as this intimate sentiment of profound emotion which penetrated them both at the same time, and which each succeeding moment, each new sound, continually exalted. The words of a song have no concern in producing this emotion—they may indeed occasionally excite some passing reflection on love or death; but it is the indefinite charm of music which blends itself with every feeling of the soul; and each one thinks he finds in this melody, as in the pure and tranquil star of night, the image of what he wishes for on earth.

"Let us retire," said Corinne; "I feel ready to faint." "What ails you?" said Oswald, with uneasiness; "you grow pale. Come into the open air with me; come." They went out together. Corinne, leaning on the arm of Oswald, felt her strength revive from the consciousness of his support. They both approached a balcony, and Corinne, with profound emotion, said to her lover, "Dear Oswald, I am about to leave you for eight days." "What do you tell me?" interrupted he. "Every year," replied she, "at the approach of Holy Week, I go to pass some time in a convent, to prepare myself for the solemnity of Easter." Oswald advanced nothing in opposition to this intention; he knew that at this epoch, the greater part of the Roman ladies gave themselves up to the most rigid devotion, without however on that account troubling themselves very seriously about religion during the rest of the year; but he recollected that Corinne professed a different worship to his, and that they could not pray together. "Why are you not," cried he, "of the same religion as myself?" Having pronounced this wish, he stopped short. "Have not our hearts and minds the same country?" answered Corinne. "It is true," replied Oswald; "but I do not feel less painfully all that separates us." They were then joined by Corinne's friends; but this eight days' absence so oppressed his heart that he did not utter a word during the whole evening.



Chapter iii.

Oswald visited Corinne at an early hour, uneasy at what she had said to him. He was received by her maid, who gave him a note from her mistress informing him that she had entered the convent on that same morning, agreeably to the intention of which he had been apprised by her, and that she should not be able to see him until after Good Friday. She owned to him that she could not find courage to make known her intention of retiring so soon, in their conversation the evening before. This was an unexpected stroke to Oswald. That house, which the absence of Corinne now rendered so solitary, made the most painful impression upon his mind; he beheld her harp, her books, her drawings, all that habitually surrounded her; but she herself was no longer there. The recollection of his father's house struck him—he shuddered and, unable to support himself, sunk into a chair.

"In such a way as this," cried he, "I might learn her death! That mind, so animated, that heart, throbbing with life, that dazzling form, in all the freshness of vernal bloom, might be crushed by the thunderbolt of fate, and the tomb of youth would be silent as that of age. Ah! what an illusion is happiness! What a fleeting moment stolen from inflexible Time, ever watching for his prey! Corinne! Corinne! you must not leave me; it was the charm of your presence which deprived me of reflection; all was confusion in my thoughts, dazzled as I was by the happy moments which I passed with you. Now I am alone—now I am restored to myself, and all my wounds are opened afresh." He invoked Corinne with a kind of despair which could not be attributed to her short absence, but to the habitual anguish of his heart, which Corinne alone could assuage. Corinne's maid, hearing the groans of Oswald, entered the room and, touched with the manner in which he was affected by the absence of her mistress, said to him, "My lord, let me comfort you; I hope my dear lady will pardon me for betraying her secret. Come into my room, and you shall see your portrait." "My portrait!" cried he. "Yes; she has painted it from memory," replied Theresa (that was the name of Corinne's maid); "she has risen at five o'clock in the morning this week past, in order to finish it before she went to the convent."

Oswald saw this portrait, which was a striking likeness and most elegantly executed: this proof of the impression which he had made on Corinne penetrated him with the sweetest emotion. Opposite this portrait was a charming picture, representing the Blessed Virgin—and before this picture was the oratory of Corinne. This singular mixture of love and religion is common to the greater part of Italian women, attended with circumstances more extraordinary than in the apartment of Corinne; for free and unrestrained as was her life, the remembrance of Oswald was united in her mind with the purest hopes and purest sentiments; but to place thus the resemblance of a lover opposite an emblem of divinity, and to prepare for a retreat to a convent by consecrating a week to paint that resemblance, was a trait that characterised Italian women in general rather than Corinne in particular. Their kind of devotion supposes more imagination and sensibility than seriousness of mind and seventy of principles;—nothing could be more contrary to Oswald's religious ideas; yet how could he find fault with Corinne, at the very moment when he received so affecting a proof of her love?

He minutely surveyed this chamber, which he now entered for the first time: at the head of Corinne's bed he saw the portrait of an elderly man, whose physiognomy was not Italian; two bracelets were hanging near this portrait, one formed of dark and light hair twisted together; the other was of the most lovely flaxen, and what appeared a most remarkable effect of chance, perfectly resembled that of Lucilia Edgermond, which he had observed very attentively three years ago on account of its extreme beauty. Oswald contemplated these bracelets without uttering a word, for to interrogate Theresa he felt to be unworthy of him. But Theresa, fancying she guessed Oswald's thoughts, and wishing to remove from his mind every jealous suspicion, hastened to inform him that during eleven years that she had waited on Corinne, her mistress had always worn these bracelets, and that she knew they were composed of the hair of her father and mother, and that of her sister. "You have been eleven years with Corinne," said Lord Nelville; "you know then—" blushing, he suddenly checked himself, ashamed of the question he was about to put, and quitted the house immediately, to avoid saying another word.

In going away, he turned about several times to behold the windows of Corinne, and when he had lost sight of her habitation, he felt a sadness now new to him—that which springs from solitude. In the evening, he sought to dissipate his melancholy by joining a distinguished assembly in Rome; for to find a charm in reverie, we must in our happy as well as in our clouded moments, be at peace with ourselves.

The party he visited was soon insupportable to Lord Nelville, inasmuch as it made him feel more sensibly all the charms that Corinne could diffuse through society, by observing the void caused by her absence. He essayed to converse with some ladies, who answered him in that insipid phraseology which is established to avoid the true expression of our sentiments and opinions, if those who use it have anything of this sort to conceal. He approached several groups of gentlemen who seemed by their voice and gesture to be discoursing upon some important subject; he heard them discussing the most trivial topic in the most common manner. He then sat down to contemplate at his ease, that vivacity without motive and without aim which is found in most numerous assemblies; nevertheless, mediocrity in Italy is by no means disagreeable; it has little vanity, little jealousy, and much respect for superiority of mind; and if it fatigues with its dulness, it hardly ever offends by its pretensions.

It was in these very assemblies, however, that Oswald had found so much to interest him a few days before; the slight obstacle which the company opposed to his conversation with Corinne,—the speedy opportunity which she took to return to him as soon as she had been sufficiently polite to the rest of the circle,—the similarity of sentiment which existed between them in the observations which the company suggested,—the pleasure which Corinne took when discoursing in Oswald's presence, to address indirectly to him some reflection of which he alone comprehended the true meaning, had attached such recollections to every part of this very room, that Oswald had been deluded so far as to believe that there was something amusing in these assemblies themselves. "Ah!" said he, when departing, "it was here as every where else—she was the life of the scene; let me rather seek the most desert spot till she return. I shall feel her absence less bitterly when there is nothing about me bearing the resemblance of pleasure."



Book x.

HOLY WEEK.



Chapter i.

Oswald passed the following day in the gardens of some monasteries. He went first to that of the Carthusians, and stopped some time before he entered, to contemplate two Egyptian lions which are at a little distance from the gate. Those lions have a remarkable expression of strength and repose; there is something in their physiognomy belonging neither to the animal nor the man: they seem one of the forces of nature and enable us to form a conception how the gods of the Pagan theology might be represented under this emblem.