Corinne; or, Italy

CHAPTER II.

The press of company prevented Corinne's reply: they were going to supper; and each cavaliér servénte hastened to seat himself beside his lady. A fair stranger arrived and found no room; yet not a man, save Oswald and d'Erfeuil, rose to offer her his place. Not that the Romans were either rude or selfish; but they believed that their honor depended on their never quitting their post of duty. Some, unable to gain seats, leaned behind their mistresses' chairs, ready to obey the slightest sign. The females spoke but to their lovers: strangers wandered in vain around a circle where no one had a word to spare them; for Italian women are ignorant of that coquetry which renders a love affair nothing more than the triumph of self-conceit; they wish to please no eyes save those that are dear to them. The mind is never misled before the heart. The most abrupt commencements are often followed by sincere devotion, and even by lasting constancy. Infidelity is more censured in man than in woman. Three or four men, beneath different titles, may follow the same beauty, who takes them with her everywhere, sometimes without troubling herself to name them to the master of the house which receives the party. One is the favorite; another aspires to be so; a third calls himself the sufferer (il patíto); though disdained, he is permitted to be of use; all the rivals live peaceably together. It is only among the common people that you still hear of the stiletto; but the whole country presents a wild mixture of simpleness and of vice, dissimulation and truth, good-nature and revenge, strength and weakness; justifying the remark, that the best of these qualities may be found among those who will do nothing for vanity; the worst among such as will do anything for interest; whether the interest of love, of avarice, or ambition. Distinctions of rank are generally disregarded in Italy. It is not from stoicism, but from heedless familiarity, that men are here insensible to aristocratic prejudices; constituting themselves judges of no one, they admit everybody. After supper they sat down to play; some of the women at hazard, others chose silent whist; and not a word was now uttered in the apartment, so noisy just before. The people of the south often run thus quickly from the extreme of agitation to that of repose; it is one of the peculiarities of their character, that indolence is succeeded by activity: indeed, in all respects they are the last men on whose merits or defects we ought to decide at first sight; so contrasted are the qualities they unite; the creatures all prudence to-day may be all audacity to-morrow. They are often apathetic, from just having made, or preparing to make, some great exertion. In fact, they waste not one energy of their minds on society, but hoard them till called forth by strong events. At this assembly many persons lost enormous sums, without the slightest change of countenance; yet the same beings could not have related a trivial anecdote without the most lively and expressive gesticulation. But when the passions have attained a certain degree of violence, they shrink from sight and veil themselves in silence.

Nevil could not surmount the bitter feelings this ball engendered; he believed that the Italians had weaned his love from him at least for a time. He was very wretched; yet his pride prevented his evincing aught beyond a contempt for the tributes offered her. When asked to play he refused, as did Corinne, who beckoned him to sit beside her; he feared to compromise her name by passing a whole evening alone with her before the eyes of the world. "Be at ease on that head," she replied; "no one thinks about us. Here no established etiquette exacts respect; a kindly politeness is all that is required; no one wishes to annoy or to be annoyed. 'Tis true that we have not here what in England is called liberty; but our social independence is perfect."—"That is," said Oswald, "that no reverence is paid to appearances."—"At least, here is no hypocrisy," she answered.—"Rochefoucault says: 'The least among the defects of a woman of gallantry is that of being one;' but whatever be the faults of Italian women, deceit does not conceal them; and if marriage vows are not held sufficiently sacred, they are broken by mutual consent."—"It is not sincerity that causes this kind of frankness," replied Oswald, "but indifference to public opinion. I brought hither an introduction to a princess, and gave it to the servant I had hired here, who said to me: 'Ah, sir, just now, this will do no service, the princess sees no one; she is innamoráta.' Thus was the fact of a lady's being in love proclaimed like any other domestic affair. Nor is this publicity excused by fidelity to one passion: many attachments succeed each other, all equally known. Women have so little mystery in these ties, that they speak of them with less embarrassment than our brides could talk of their husbands. It is not easy to believe that any deep or refined affection can exist with this shameless fickleness. Though nothing is thought of but love, here can be no romance: adventures are so rapid, and so open, that nothing is left to be developed; and, justly to describe the general method of arranging these things, one ought to begin and end in the first chapter. Corinne, pardon me if I give you pain. You are an Italian; that should disarm me: but one reason why you are thus incomparable is, that you unite the best characteristics of our different nations. I know not where you were educated, but you certainly cannot have passed all your life here: perhaps, it was in England. Ah, if so, how could you leave that sanctuary of all that is modest, for a land where not only virtue, but love itself is so little understood! It may be breathed in the air, but does it reach the heart? The poetry, here, in which love plays so great a part, is full of brilliant pictures, indeed; but where will you find the melancholy tenderness of our bards? What have you to compare with the parting of Jaffier and Belvidera, with Romeo and Juliet, or with the lines in Thomson's Spring, depicting the happiness of wedded life? Is there any such life in Italy? and, without homefelt felicity, how can love exist? Is not happiness the aim of the heart, as pleasure is that of the senses? Would not all young and lovely women be alike to us, did not mental qualities decide our preference? What then, do these qualities teach us to crave? an intercourse of thought and feeling, permanent and undivided! This is what we mean by marriage. Illegitimate love, when, unhappily, it does occur among us, is still but the reflex of marriage. The same comfort is sought abroad which cannot be found at home; and even infidelity in England is more moral than Italian matrimony."

This severity so afflicted Corinne that she rose, her eyes filled with tears, and hurried home. Oswald was in despair at having offended her; but the irritation this ball had dealt him, found a channel in the censure he had just pronounced. He followed her; but she would not see him. Next morning he made another attempt; but her door was still closed. This was out of character in Corinne; but she was so dismayed by his opinion of her countrywomen, that she resolved, if possible, to conceal her affection from him forever. Oswald, on his part, was confirmed by this unusual conduct in the discontent that unlucky fête had engendered; he was excited to struggle against the sentiment whose empire he dreaded. His principles were strict.

Corinne's manners sometimes evinced a too universal wish to please; her conduct and carriage were noble and reserved; but her opinions were over-indulgent. In fact, though dazzled and enervated, something still combatted his weakness. Such a state often embitters our language; we are displeased with ourselves and others; we suffer so much, that we long to brave the worst at once, and, by open war, ascertain which of our two formidable emotions is to triumph. It was in this mood that he wrote to Corinne. He knew his letter was angry and unbecoming; yet a confusion of impulses urged him to send it. He was so miserable in his present situation, that he longed, at any price, for some change; and was reckless how his doubts were answered, so that they came to a termination. A rumor brought him by Count d'Erfeuil, though he believed it not, contributed, perhaps, to render his style still more unkind. It was said that Corinne was about to marry Prince Amalfi. Oswald well knew that she did not love this man, and ought to have been sure that the report sprung merely from her having danced with him; but he persuaded himself that she had received Amalfi when denied to him; therefore, though too proud to confess his personal jealousy, he vented it on the people in whose favor he knew her to be so prepossessed.

CHAPTER III.

"TO CORINNE.

"January 24, 1795.

"You refuse to see me; you are offended by my last conversation, and, no doubt, intend henceforth to admit none but your countrymen, and thus expiate your recent deviation from that rule. Yet, far from repenting the sincerity with which I spoke to you, whom, perhaps chimerically, I would fain consider an Englishwoman, I will dare to say, still more plainly, that you can preserve neither your own dignity nor your own peace, by choosing a husband from your present society. I know not one Italian who deserves you; not one who could honor you by his alliance, whatever were the title he had to bestow. The men are far less estimable here than the women, to whose errors they add worse of their own. Would you persuade me that these sons of the South, who so carefully avoid all trouble, and live but for enjoyment, can be capable of love? Did you not, last month, see at the Opera a man who had not eight days before lost a wife he was said to adore? The memory of the dead, the thought of death itself, is here, as much as possible, thrown aside. Funeral ceremonies are performed by the priests, as the duties of love are fulfilled by cavaliéres servéntes. Custom has prescribed all rites beforehand: regret and enthusiasm are nothing. But what, above all, must be destructive to love, is the fact that your men cannot be respected; women give them no credit for submission, because they found them originally weak, and destitute of all serious employment. It is requisite, for the perfection of natural and social order, that men should protect, and women be protected; but by guardians adoring the weakness they defend, and worshipping the gentle divinity which, like the Penates of the ancients, calls down good fortune on the house. Here one might almost say that woman is the sultan, and men her seraglio; it is they who have most pliancy and softness. An Italian proverb says: 'Who knows not how to feign, knows not how to live,' Is not that a feminine maxim? but where you have neither military glory nor free institutions, how should men acquire strength and majesty of mind? Their wit degenerates into a kind of cleverness, with which they play the game of life like a match at chess, wherein success is everything. All that remains of their love for antiquity consists in exaggerated expressions and external grandeur; but, beside this baseless greatness, you often find the most vulgar tastes, the most miserably neglected homes. Is this, then, Corinne, the country you prefer? Is its boisterous applause so essential to you, that every other kind of destiny would seem dull, compared with these re-echoing brávos? Who could hope to make you happy, in tearing you from this tumult? You are an incomprehensible person: deep in feeling, superficial in taste; independent by pride of soul, enslaved by a desire for dissipation; capable of loving but one, yet requiring the notice of all the world. You are a sorceress, who alternately disturb and reassure me; who, when most sublime, can at once descend from the region where you reign alone, to lose yourself among the herd. Corinne, Corinne! in loving you, it is impossible to avoid fearing and doubting too.
OSWALD."

Indignant as Corinne felt at Nevil's antipathy to her country, she was relieved by guessing that the fête, and her refusal to speak with him, had ruffled his temper. She hesitated, or believed herself hesitating, for some time, as to the line of conduct she ought to pursue. Love made her sigh for his presence: yet she could not brook his supposing that she wished to be his wife; though in fortune, at least, his equal, and no way beneath him in name, if she deigned to reveal it. The uncontrolled life she had chosen, might have given her some aversion to marriage; and, certainly, had not her attachment blinded her to all the pangs she must endure in espousing an Englishman, and renouncing Italy, she would have repulsed such an idea with disdain. A woman may forget her pride in all that concerns the heart: but when worldly interest appears the obstacle to inclinations; when the person beloved can be accused of sacrificing himself in his union, she can no longer abandon herself to her feelings before him. Corinne, however, unable to break with her lover, trusted that she still might meet him, yet conceal her affection. It was in this belief that she determined on replying only to his accusations of the Italians, and reasoning on them as if interested by no other subject. Perhaps the best way in which such a woman can regain her coldness and her dignity, is that of entrenching herself in the fortress of her mental superiority.

"TO LORD NEVIL.

"Jan. 25, 1795.

"If your letter concerned no one but me, my Lord, I should not attempt to justify myself. My character is so easily known, that he who cannot comprehend it intuitively, would not be enlightened by any explanation I could give. The virtuous reserve of Englishwomen, and the more artful graces of the French, often conceal one half of what passes in their bosoms; and what you are pleased to call magic in me, is nothing but an unconstrained disposition, which permits my varying, my inconsistent thoughts to be heard, without my taking the pains of bringing them into tune. Such harmony is nearly always factitious; for most genuine characters are heedlessly confiding. But it is not of myself that I would speak to you; it is of the unfortunate nation which you attack so cruelly. Can my regard for my friends have instilled this bitter malignity? You know me too well to be jealous of them: nor have I the vanity to suppose that any such sentiment has rendered you thus unjust. You say but what all foreigners say of the Italians, what must strike every one at first; but you should look deeper ere you thus sentence a people once so great. Whence came it that, in the Roman day, they were the most military in the world; during the republics of the Middle Ages, the most tenacious of their freedom; and, in the sixteenth century, the most illustrious for literature, science, and the arts? Has not Italy pursued fame in every shape? If it be lost to her now, blame her political situation; since, in other circumstances, she showed herself so unlike all she is. I may be wrong, but the faults of the Italians only enhance my pity for their fate. Strangers, from time to time, have conquered and distracted this fair land, the object of their perpetual ambition; yet strangers forever reproach her natives with the defects inevitable to a vanquished race.

"Europe owes her learning, her accomplishments, to the Italians; and, having turned their own gifts against them, would gladly deny them the only glory left to a people deprived of martial power and public liberty. It is true that governments form the characters of nations; and, in Italy herself, you will find remarkable distinctions between the inhabitants of different states. The Piedmontese, who once formed a small national corps, have a more warlike spirit than the rest. The Florentines, who have mostly possessed either freedom or liberal rulers, are well-educated and well-mannered. The Venetians and the Genoese evince a capacity for politics, because they have a republican aristocracy. The Milanese are more sincere, thanks to their long intercourse with northern nations. The Neapolitans are prompt to rebel, having for ages lived beneath an imperfect government, but still one of their own. The Roman nobles have nothing to do, either diplomatic or military, and may well remain idly ignorant; but the ecclesiastics, whose career is definite, have faculties far more developed; and, as the papal law observes no distinction of birth, but is purely elective in its ordinance of the clergy, the result is, a species of liberality, not in ideas, but in habits, which renders Rome the most agreeable abode for those who have neither power nor emulation for sustaining a part in the world. The people of the South are more easily modified by existing institutions than those of the North. This clime induces a languor favorable to resignation, and nature offers enough to console man for the advantages society denies. Undoubtedly, there is much corruption in Italy: its civilization is far from refinement. There is a savage wilderness beneath Italian cunning; it is that of a hunter lying in wait for his prey. Indolent people easily become sly and shifting; their natural gentleness serves to hide even a fit of rage; for it is by our habitual manner that an accidental change of feeling may be best concealed. Yet Italians have both truth and constancy in their private connections. Interest may sway them, but not pride. Here is no ceremony, no fashion; none of the little everyday tricks for creating a sensation. The usual sources of artifice and of envy exist not here. Foes and rivals are deceived by those who consider themselves at war with them; but, while in peace, they act with honesty and candor. This is the very cause of your complaint. Our women hear of nothing but love; they live in an atmosphere of seduction and dangerous example; yet their frankness lends an innocence to gallantry itself. They have no fear of ridicule: many are so ignorant that they cannot even write, and confess it without scruple. They engage a Paglietto to answer letters for them, which he does on paper large enough for a petition; but among the better classes you see professors from the academies in their black scarfs, giving lessons publicly. If you are inclined to laugh at them, they ask you: 'Is there any harm in understanding Greek, or living by our own exertions? How can you deride so matter-of-course a proceeding?' Dare I, my Lord, touch on a more delicate subject?—the reason why our men so seldom display a military spirit. They readily expose their lives for love or hate: in such causes, the wounds given and received neither astonish nor alarm their witnesses. Fearless of death, when natural passions command them to defy it; they still, I must confess, value life above the political interests which slightly affect those who can scarcely be said to have a country. Chivalrous honor has little influence over a people among whom the opinions that nourish it are dead; naturally enough, in such a disorganization of public affairs, women gain a great ascendency; perhaps too much so for them to respect or admire their lovers, who, nevertheless, treat them with the most delicate devotion. Domestic virtue constitutes the welfare and the pride of Englishwomen; but on no land, where love dispenses with its sacred bonds, is the happiness of women watched over as in Italy. If our men cannot make a moral code for immorality, they are at least just and generous in their participation of cares and duties. They consider themselves more culpable than their mistresses when they break their chains: they know that women make the heaviest sacrifice; and believe that, before the tribunal of the heart, the greatest criminals are those who have done most wrong. Men err from selfishness; women, because they are weak. Where society is at once vigorous and corrupt, that is, most merciless to the faults that are followed by the worst misfortunes, women of course are used with more severity; but where we have no established etiquettes, natural charity has a greater power. Spite all that has been said of Italian perfidy, I will assert that there is as much real good-nature here as in any other country of the world; and that, slandered as it is by strangers, they will nowhere meet with a kinder reception. Italians are reproached as flatterers; it is with no premeditated plan, but in mere eagerness to please, that they lavish expressions of affection, not often belied by their conduct. Would they be ever-faithful friends, if called on to prove so in danger or adversity?—A very small number, I allow, might be capable of such friendship; but it is not to Italy alone that this observation is applicable. I have previously admitted their Oriental indolence. Yet the very women, who appear like so many beauties of a harem, may surprise you by traits of generosity or of revenge: as for the men, give them but an object, and, in six months, you might find that they would have learned and understood whatever was required of them; but, while they are untaught, why should females be instructed? An Italian girl would soon become worthy of an intelligent husband, provided that she loved him; but in a country where all great interests are suppressed, a careless repose is more noble than a vain agitation about trifles. Literature itself must languish, where thoughts are not renewed by vigorous and varied action. Yet in what land have arts and letters been more worshipped? History shows us, that the popes, princes, and people have at all times done homage to distinguished painters, sculptors, poets, and other writers.[1] This zeal was, I own, my Lord, one of the first motives which attached me to this country. I did not find here those seared imaginations, that discouraging spirit, nor that despotic mediocrity, which, elsewhere, can so soon stifle innate ability. Here a felicitous phrase takes fire, as it were, among its auditors. As genius is the gift which ranks highest among us, it inevitably excites much envy. Peregolese was assassinated: Giorgione wore a cuirass, when obliged to paint in any public place; but the violent jealousy to which talent gives birth here, is such as in other realms is created by power; it seeks not to depreciate the object it can hate, or even kill, from the very fanaticism of admiration. Finally, when we see so much life in a circle so contracted, in the midst of so many obstacles and oppressions, we can hardly forbear from a vivid solicitude for those who respire with such avidity the little air that fancy breathes through the boundaries which confine them. These are so limited, that men of our day can rarely acquire the pride and firmness which mark those of freer and more military states. I will even confess, if you desire it, my Lord, that such a national character must inspire a woman with more enthusiasm; but is it not possible that a man may be brave, honorable, nay, unite all the attributes which can teach us to love, without possessing those that might promise us content?
"CORINNE."

CHAPTER IV.

This letter revived all Oswald's remorse at having even thought of detaching himself from his love. The commanding intellectual mildness of its reproof affected him deeply. A superiority so vast, so real, yet so simple, appeared to him out of all ordinary rule. He was never insensible that this was not the tender creature his fancy had chosen for the partner of his life: all he remembered of Lucy Edgarmond, at twelve years of age, better accorded with that ideal. But who could be compared with Corinne? She was a miracle formed by nature, in his behalf, he dared believe; since he might flatter himself that he was dear to her. Yet what would be his prospects if he declared his inclination to make her his wife? Such, he thought, would be his decision; yet the idea that her past life had not been entirely irreproachable, and that such a union would assuredly have been condemned by his father, again overwhelmed him with painful anxiety. He was not so subdued by grief as he had been ere he met Corinne; but he no longer felt the calm which may accompany repentance, when a whole life is devoted to expiate our faults. Formerly, he did not fear yielding to his saddest memories, but now he dreaded the meditations which revealed to him the secrets of his heart. He was preparing to seek Corinne, to thank her for her letter, and obtain pardon for his own, when his apartment was suddenly entered by Mr. Edgarmond, the young Lucy's near relation.

This gentleman had lived chiefly on his estate in Wales; he possessed just the principles and the prejudice that serve to keep things as they are; and this is an advantage where things are as well arranged as human reason permits. In such a case, the partisans of established order, even though stubbornly bigoted to their own ways of thinking, deserve to be regarded as rational and enlightened men.

Lord Nevil shuddered as this name was announced. All the past seemed to rise before him in an instant; and his next idea was, that Lady Edgarmond, the mother of Lucy, had charged her kinsman with reproaches. This thought restored his self-command; he received his countryman with excessive coldness; though not a single aim of the good man's journey concerned our hero. He was travelling for his health, exercising himself in the chase, and drinking "Success to King George and old England!" He was one of the best fellows in the world, with more wit and education than would have been supposed; ultra-English, even on points where it would have been advisable to be less so; keeping up, in all countries, the habit of his own, and avoiding their natives, not from contempt, but a reluctance to speak in foreign tongues, and a timidity which, at the age of fifty, rendered him extremely shy of new acquaintance.

"I am delighted to see you," he said to Nevil. "I go to Naples in a fortnight: shall I find you there? I wish I may! having but little time to stay in Italy, as my regiment embarks shortly." "Your regiment!" repeated Oswald, coloring, not that he had forgotten that, having a year's leave of absence, his presence would not be so soon required; but he blushed to think that Corinne might banish even duty from his mind. "Your corps," continued Mr. Edgarmond, "will leave you more leisure for the quiet necessary to restore your strength. Just before I left England, I saw a little cousin of mine in whom you are interested: she is a charming girl! and, by the time you return, next year, I don't doubt that she will be the finest woman in England." Nevil was silent, and Mr. Edgarmond too. For some time after this, they addressed each other very laconically, though with kind politeness, and the guest rose to depart; but, turning from the door, said, abruptly, "Apropos, my Lord, you can do me a favor, I am told that you know the celebrated Corinne; and, though I generally shrink from foreigners, I am really curious to see her." "I will ask her permission to take you to her house, then," replied Oswald. "Do, I beg: let me see her, some day when she extemporises, dances, and sings." "Corinne," returned Nevil, "does not thus display her accomplishments before strangers: she is every way your equal and mine." "Forgive my mistake," cried his friend; "but as she is merely called Corinne, and, at six-and-twenty, lives unprotected by any one of her family, I thought that she subsisted by her talents, and might gladly seize any opportunity of making them known." "Her fortune is independent," replied Oswald, hastily; "her mind still more so." Mr. Edgarmond regretted that he had mentioned her, seeing that the topic interested Lord Nevil.

No people on earth deal more considerately with true affections than do the English. He departed; Oswald remained alone, exclaiming to himself: "I ought to marry Corinne! I must secure her against future misinterpretation. I will offer her the little I can, rank and name, in return for the felicity which she alone can grant me." In this mood, full of hope and love, he hastened to her house: yet, by a natural impulse of diffidence, began by reassuring himself with conversation on indifferent themes: among them was the request of Mr. Edgarmond. She was evidently discomposed by that name, and, in a trembling voice, refused his visit. Oswald was greatly astonished. "I should have thought that with you, who receive so much company," he said, "the title of my friend would be no motive for exclusion."—"Do not be offended, my Lord," she said; "believe me, I must have powerful reasons for denying any wish of yours."—"Will you tell me those reasons?" he asked. "Impossible!" she answered. "Be it so, then," he articulated. The vehemence of his feelings checked his speech; he would have left her, but Corinne, through her tears, exclaimed in English: "For God's sake stay, if you would not break my heart!"

These words and accents thrilled Nevil to the soul; he reseated himself at some distance from her, leaning his head against an alabaster vase, and murmuring: "Cruel woman! you see I love you, and am twenty times a day ready to offer you my hand; yet you will not tell me who you are, Corinne! Tell me now!"—"Oswald," she sighed, "you know not how you pain me: were I rash enough to obey, you would cease to love me."—"Great God!" he cried, "what have you to reveal?"—"Nothing that renders me unworthy of you: but do not exact it. Some day, perhaps, when you love me better—if—ah! I know not what I say—you shall know all, but do not abandon me unheard. Promise it in the name of your now sainted father!"

"Name him not!" raved Oswald. "Know you if he would unite or part us? If you believe he would consent, say so, and I shall surmount this anguish. I will one day tell you the sad story of my life; but now, behold the state to which you have reduced me!"

Cold dews stood on his pale brow; his trembling lips could utter no more. Corinne seated herself beside him; and, holding his hands in hers tenderly, recalled him to himself. "My dear Oswald?" she said, ask Mr. Edgarmond if he was ever in Northumberland; or, at least, if he has been there only within the last five years: if so, you may bring him hither." Oswald gazed fixedly on her; she cast down her eyes in silence. "I will do what you desire," he said, and departed. Secluded in his chamber, he exhausted his conjectures on the secrets of Corinne. It appeared evident that she had passed some time in England, and that her family name must be known there! but what was her motive for concealment, and why had she left his country? He was convinced that no stain could attach to her life; but he feared that a combination of circumstances might have made her seem blamable in the eyes of others. He was armed against the disapprobation of every country save England. The memory of his father was so entwined with that of his native land, that each sentiment strengthened the other. Oswald learned from Edgarmond that he had visited Northumberland for the first time a year ago; and therefore promised to introduce him at Corinne's that evening. He was the first to arrive there, in order to warn her against the misconceptions of his friend, and beg her, by a cold reserve of manner, to show him how much he was deceived.

"If you permit me," she observed, "I would rather treat him as I do every one else. If he wishes to hear the improvisatrice, he shall; I will show myself to him such as I am; for I think he will as easily perceive my rightful pride through this simple conduct, as if I behaved with an affected constraint."—"You are right, Corinne," said Oswald: "how wrong were he who would attempt to change you from your admirable self!" The rest of the party now joined them. Nevil placed himself near his love, with an added air of deference, rather to command that of others than to satisfy himself; he had soon the joy of finding this effort needless! She captivated Edgarmond, not only by her charms and conversation, but by inspiring that esteem which sterling characters, however contrasted, naturally feel for each other; and when he ventured on asking her to extemporise for him, he aspired to this honor with the most revering earnestness. She consented without delay; for she knew how to give her favors a value beyond that of difficult attainment. She was anxious to please the countryman of Nevil—a man whose report of her ought to have some weight—but these thoughts occasioned her so sudden a tremor, that she knew not how to begin. Oswald, grieved that she should not shine her best before an Englishman, turned away his eyes, in obvious embarrassment; and Corinne, thinking of no one but himself, lost all her presence of mind; nor ideas, nor even words, were at her call; and, suddenly giving up the attempt, she said to Mr. Edgarmond, "Forgive me, sir; fear robs me of all power. 'Tis the first time, my friends know, that I was ever thus beside myself; but," she added, with a sigh, "it may not be the last."

Till now, Oswald had seen her genius triumph over her affections; but now feeling had entirely subdued her mind; yet so identified was he with her glory, that he suffered beneath this failure, instead of enjoying it. Certain, however, that she would excel on a future interview with his friend, he gave himself up to the sweet pledge of his own power which he had just received; and the image of his beloved reigned more securely in his heart than ever.

BOOK VII.

ITALIAN LITERATURE.

CHAPTER I.

Lord Nevil was very desirous that Mr. Edgarmond should partake the conversation of Corinne, which far surpassed her improvised verses. On the following day, the same party assembled at her house; and, to elicit her remarks, he turned the discourse on Italian literature, provoking her natural vivacity by affirming that England could boast a greater number of true poets than Italy. "In the first place," said Corinne, "foreigners usually know none but our first-rate poets: Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio; but we have many others, such as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaja, and Parini, without reckoning Sannazer Politian, who wrote in Latin. All their verses are harmoniously colored; all more or less knew how to introduce the wonders of nature and art into their verbal pictures. Doubtless they want the melancholy grandeur of your bards, and their knowledge of the human heart; but does not this kind of superiority become the philosopher better than the poet? The brilliant melody of our language is rather adapted to describe external objects than abstract meditation; it is more competent to depict fury than sadness; for reflection calls for metaphysical expressions; while revenge excites the fancy, and banishes the thought of grief. Cesarotti has translated Ossian in the most elegant manner: but in reading him, we feel that his words are in themselves too joyous for the gloomy ideas they would recall; we yield to the charm of our soft phrases, as to the murmur of waves or the tints of flowers. What more would you exact of poetry? If you ask the nightingale the meaning of his song, he can explain but by recommencing it; we can only appreciate its music by giving way to the impression it makes on us. Our measured lines, with rapid terminations, composed of two brief syllables, glide along as their name (Sdruccioli) denotes, sometimes imitating the light steps of a dance; sometimes, with graver tone, realizing the tumult of a tempest, or the clash of arms. Our poetry is a wonder of imagination: you ought not in it to seek for every species of pleasure."—"I admit," returned Nevil, "that you account as well as possible for the beauties and defects of your national poetry; but when these faults, without these graces, are found in prose, how can you defend it? what is but vague in the one becomes unmeaning in the other. The crowd of common ideas, that your poets embellish by melody and by figures, is served up cold in your prose, with the most fatiguing pertinacity. The greatest portion of your present prose writers use a language so declamatory, so diffuse, so abounding in superlatives, that one would think they all dealt out the same accepted phrases by word of command, or by a kind of convention. Their style is a tissue, a piece of mosaic. They possess in its highest degree the art of inflating an idea, or frothing up a sentiment; one is tempted to ask them a similar question to that put by the negress to the Frenchwoman, in the days of hoop-petticoats, 'Pray, Madam, is all that yourself?' Now, how much is real, beneath this pomp of words, which one true expression might dissipate like an idle dream?"—"You forget," interrupted Corinne, "first Machiavel and Boccaccio, then Gravina, Filangieri, and even, in our own days, Cesarotti, Verri, Bettinelli, and many others, who knew both how to write and how to think.[1] I agree with you, that, for the last century or two, unhappy circumstances having deprived Italy of her independence, all zeal for truth has been so lost, that it is often impossible to speak it in any way. The result is, a habit of resting content with words, and never daring to approach a thought. Authors, too sure that they can effect no change in the state of things, write but to show their wit—the surest way of soon concluding with no wit at all; for it is only by directing our efforts to a nobly useful aim that we can augment our stock of ideas. When writers can do nothing for the welfare of their country; when, indeed, their means constitute their end; from leading to no better, they double in a thousand windings, without advancing one step. The Italians are afraid of new ideas, rather because they are indolent than from literary servility. By nature they have much originality; but they give themselves no time to reflect. Their eloquence, so vivid in conversation, chills as they work; besides this, the Southerns feel hampered by prose, and can only express themselves fully in verse. It is not thus with French literature," added Corinne to d'Erfeuil: "your prose writers are often more poetical than your versifiers."—"That is a truth established by classic authorities," replied the Count. "Bossuet, La Bruyére, Montesquieu, and Buffon can never be surpassed; especially the first two, who belonged to the age of Louis XIV.; they are perfect models for all to imitate who can;—a hint as important to foreigners as to ourselves."—"I can hardly think," returned Corinne, "that it were desirable for distinct countries to lose their peculiarities; and I dare to tell you, Count, that, in your own land, the national orthodoxy which opposes all felicitous innovations must render your literature very barren. Genius is essentially creative; it bears the character of the individual who possesses it. Nature, who permits no two leaves to be exactly alike, has given a still greater diversity to human minds. Imitation, then, is a double murder; for it deprives both copy and original of their primitive existence."—"Would you wish us," asked d'Erfeuil, "to admit such Gothic barbarisms as Young's 'Night Thoughts,' or the Spanish and Italian Concetti? What would become of our tasteful and elegant style after such a mixture?" The Prince Castel Forte now remarked: "I think that we all are in want of each other's aid. The literature of every country offers a new sphere of ideas to those familiar with it. Charles V. said: 'The man who understands four languages is worth four men,' What that great Genius applied to politics is as true in the state of letters. Most foreigners understand French; their views, therefore, are more extended than those of Frenchmen, who know no language but their own. Why do they not oftener learn other tongues? They would preserve what distinguishes themselves, and might acquire some things in which they still are wanting."

CHAPTER II.

"You will confess, at least," replied the Count, "that there is one department in which we have nothing to learn from any one. Our theatre is decidedly the first in Europe. I cannot suppose that the English themselves would think of placing their Shakspeare above us."—"Pardon me, they do think of it," answered Mr. Edgarmond; and, having said this, resumed his previous silence. "Oh!" exclaimed the Count, with civil contempt; "let every man think as he pleases; but I persist in believing that, without presumption, we may call ourselves the highest of all dramatic artists. As for the Italians, if I may speak frankly, they are in doubt whether there is such an art in the world. Music is everything with them; the piece nothing: if a second act possesses a better scena than the first, they begin with that; nay, they will play portions of different operas on the same night, and between them an act from some prose comedy, containing nothing but moral sentences, such as our ancestors turned over to the use of other countries, as worn too threadbare for their own. Your famed musicians do what they will with your poets. One won't sing a certain air, unless the word Felicità be introduced; the tenor demands his Tomba; a third can't shake unless be upon Catene. The poor poet must do his best to harmonize these varied tastes with his dramatic situations. Nor is this the worst: some of them will not deign to walk on the stage; they must appear surrounded by clouds, or descend from the top of a palace staircase, in order to give their entrance due effect. Let an air be sung in ever so tender or so furious a passage, the actor must needs bow his thanks for the applause it draws down. In Semiramis, the other night, the spectre of Ninus paid his respects to the pit with an obsequiousness quite neutralizing the awe his costume should have created. In Italy, the theatre is looked on merely as a rendezvous, where you need listen to nothing but the songs and the ballet. I may well say they listen to the ballet, for they are never quiet till after its commencement; in itself it is the chef-d'œuvre of bad taste; I know not what there is to amuse in your ballet beyond its absurdity. I have seen Gengis Khan, clothed in ermine and magnanimity, give up his crown to the child of his conquered rival, and lift him into the air upon his foot, a new way of raising a monarch to the throne; I have seen the self-devotion of Curtius, in three acts, full of divertissements. The hero, dressed like an Arcadian shepherd, had a long dance with his mistress, ere he mounted a real horse upon the stage, and threw himself into a fiery gulf, lined with orange satin and gold paper. In fact l have seen an abridgement of the Roman history, turned into ballets, from Romulus down to Cæsar."—"All that is very true," mildly replied the Prince of Castel Forte; "but you speak only of our Opera, which is in no country considered the dramatic theatre."—"Oh, it is still worse when they represent tragedies, or dramas not included under the head of those with happy catastrophes; they crowd more horrors into five acts than human imagination ever conceived. In one of these pieces a lover kills his mistress' brother, and burns her brains before the audience. The fourth act is occupied by the funeral, and ere the fifth begins, the lover, with the utmost composure, gives out the next night's harlequinade; then resumes his character, in order to end the play by shooting himself. The tragedians are perfect counterparts of the cold exaggerations in which they perform, committing the greatest atrocities with the most exemplary indifference. If an actor becomes impassioned, he is called a preacher, so much more emotion is betrayed in the pulpit than on the stage; and it is lucky that these heroes are so peacefully pathetic, since as there is nothing interesting in your plays, the more fuss they made, the more ridiculous they would become: it were well if they were divertingly so; but it is all too monotonous to laugh at. Italy has neither tragedy nor comedy; the only drama truly her own is the harlequinade. A thievish, cowardly glutton; an amorous or avaricious old dupe of a guardian, are the materials. You will own that such inventions cost no very great efforts, and that the 'Tartuffe' and the 'Misanthrope' called for some exertion of genius." This attack displeased the Italians, though they laughed at it. In conversation the Count preferred displaying his wit to his good-humor. Natural benevolence prompted his actions, but self-love his words. Castel Forte and others longed to refute his accusations, but they thought the cause would be better defended by Corinne; and as they rarely sought to shine themselves, they were content, after citing such names as Maffei, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, and Monti, with begging her to answer Monsieur d'Erfeuil. Corinne agreed with him that the Italians had no national theatre; but she sought to prove that circumstances, and not want of talent, had caused this deficiency. "Comedy," she said, "as depending on observation of manners, can only exist in a country accustomed to a great varied population. Italy is animated by violent passions or effeminate enjoyments. Such passions give birth to crimes that confound all shades of character. But that ideal comedy, which suits all times, all countries, was invented here. Harlequin, pantaloon, and clown are to be found in every piece of that description. Everywhere they have rather masks than faces; that is, they wear the physiognomy of their class, and not of individuals. Doubtless our modern authors found these parts all made to their hands, like the pawns of a chess-board; but these fantastic creations, which, from one end of Europe to the other, still amuse not only children, but men whom fancy renders childish, surely give the Italians some claim on the art of comedy. Observation of the human heart is an inexhaustible source of literature; but nations rather romantic than reflective yield themselves more readily to the delirium of joy than to philosophic satire. Something of sadness lurks beneath the pleasantry founded on a knowledge of mankind: the most truly inoffensive gayety is that which is purely imaginative. Not that Italians do not shrewdly study those with whom they are concerned. They detect the most private thoughts, as subtly as others; but they are not wont to make a literary use of the acuteness which marks their conduct. Perhaps they are reluctant to generalize and to publish their discoveries. Prudence may forbid their wasting on mere plays what may serve to guide their behavior, or converting into witty fictions that which they find so useful in real life. Nevertheless, Machiavel, who has made known all the secrets of criminal policy, may serve to show of what terrible sagacity the Italian mind is capable. Goldoni, who lived in Venice, where society is at its best, introduced more observation into his work than is commonly found. Yet his numerous comedies want variety both of character and situation. They seem modelled, not on life, but on the generality of theatrical pieces. Irony is not the true character of Italian wit. It is Ariosto, and not Molière, who can amuse us here. Gozzi, the rival of Goldoni, had much more irregular originality. He gave himself up freely to his genius; mingling buffoonery with magic, imitating nothing in nature, but dealing with those fairy chimeras that bear the mind beyond the boundaries of this world. He had a prodigious success in his day, and perhaps is the best specimen of Italian comic fancy; but, to ascertain what our tragedy and comedy might become, they must be allowed a theatre, and a company. A host of small towns dissipate the few resources that might be collected. That division of states, usually so favorable to public welfare, is destructive of it here. We want a centre of light and power, to pierce the mists of surrounding prejudice. The authority of a government would be a blessing, if it contended with the ignorance of men, isolated among themselves, in separate provinces, and, by awakening emulation, gave life to a people now content with a dream."

These and other discussions were spiritedly put forth by Corinne; she equally understood the art of that light and rapid style, which insists on nothing; in her wish to please, adopting each by turns, though frequently abandoning herself to the talent which had rendered her so celebrated as an improvisatrice. Often did she call on Castel Forte to support her opinions by his own; but she spoke so well, that all her auditors listened with delight, and could not have endured an interruption. Mr. Edgarmond, above all, could never have wearied of seeing and hearing her: he hardly dared explain to himself the admiration she excited; and whispered some words of praise, trusting that she would understand, without obliging him to repeat them. He felt, however, so anxious to hear her sentiments on tragedy, that, in spite of his timidity, he risked the question. "Madame," he said, "it appears to me that tragedies are what your literature wants most. I think that yours come less near an equality with our own, than children do to men; for childish sensibility, if light, is genuine; while your serious dramas are so stilted and unnatural, that they stifle all emotion. Am I not right, my Lord?" he added, turning his eyes towards Nevil, with an appeal for assistance, and astonished at himself for having dared to say so much before so large a party.—"I think just as you do," returned Oswald: "Metastasio, whom they vaunt as the bard of love, gives that passion the same coloring in all countries and situations. His songs, indeed, abound with grace, harmony, and lyric beauty, especially when detached from the dramas to which they belong; but it is impossible for us, whose Shakspeare is indisputably the poet who has most profoundly fathomed the depths of human passions, to bear with the fond pairs who fill nearly all the scenes of Metastasio, and, whether called Achilles or Thyrsis, Brutus or Corilas, all sing in the same strain, the martyrdom they endure, and depict, as a species of insipid idiotcy, the most stormy impulse that can wreck the heart of man. It is with real respect for Alfieri that I venture a few comments on his works, their aim is so noble! The sentiments of the author so well accord with the life of the man, that his tragedies ought always to be praised as so many great actions, even though they may be criticized in a literary sense. It strikes me, that some of them have a monotony in their vigor, as Metastasio's have in their sweetness. Alfieri gives us such a profusion of energy and worth, or such an exaggeration of violence and guilt, that it is impossible to recognize one human being among his heroes. Men are never either so vile or so generous as he describes them. The object is to contrast vice with virtue; but these contrasts lack the gradations of truth. If tyrants were obliged to put up with half he makes their victims say to their faces, one would really feel tempted to pity them. In the tragedy of 'Octavia,' this outrage of probability is most apparent. Seneca lectures Nero, as if the one were the bravest, and the other the most patient of men. The master of the world allows himself to be insulted, and put in a rage, scene after scene, as if it were not in his own power to end all this by a single word. It is certain, that, in these continual dialogues, Seneca utters maxims which one might pride to hear in a harangue or read in a dissertation; but is this the way to give an idea of tyranny?—instead of investing it with terror, to set it up as a block against which to tilt with wordy weapons! Had Shakspeare represented Nero surrounded by trembling slaves, who scarce dared answer the most indifferent question, himself vainly endeavoring to appear at ease, and Seneca at his side, composing the Apology for Agrippina's murder, would not our horror have been a thousand times more great? and, for one reflection made by the author, would not millions have arisen, in the spectator's mind, from the silent rhetoric of so true a picture?" Oswald might have spoken much longer ere Corinne would have interrupted him, so fascinated was she by the sound of his voice, and the turn of his expressions. Scarce could she remove her gaze from his countenance, even when he ceased to speak; then, as her friends eagerly asked what she thought of Italian tragedy, she answered by addressing herself to Nevil.—"My lord, I so entirely agree with you, that it is not as a disputant I reply; but to make some exceptions to your, perhaps, too general rules. It is true that Metastasio is rather a lyric than a dramatic poet; and that he depicts love rather as one of the fine arts that embellish life, than as the secret source of our deepest joys and sorrows. Although our poetry has been chiefly devoted to love, I will hazard the assertion that we have more truth and power in our portraitures of every other passion. For amatory themes, a kind of conventional style has been formed amongst us; and poets are inspired by what they have read, not by their own feelings. Love as it is in Italy, bears not the slightest resemblance to love such as our authors describe.

"I know but one romance, the 'Fiammetta' of Boccaccio, in which the passion is attired in its truly national colors. Italian love is a deep and rapid impression, more frequently betrayed by the silent ardor of our deeds, than by ingenious and highly wrought language. Our literature, in general, bears but a faint stamp of our manners. We are too humbly modest to found tragedies on our own history, or fill them with our own emotions.[1] Alfieri, by a singular chance, was transplanted from antiquity into modern times. He was born for action; yet permitted but to write: his style resented this restraint. He wished by a literary road to reach a political goal; a noble one, but such as spoils all works of fancy. He was impatient of living among learned writers and enlightened readers, who, nevertheless, cared for nothing serious; but amused themselves with madrigals and nouvellettes. Alfieri sought to give his tragedies a more austere character. He retrenched everything that could interfere with the interest of his dialogue; as if determined to make his countrymen do penance for their natural vivacity. Yet he was much admired: because he was truly great, and because the inhabitants of Rome applaud all praise bestowed on the ancient Romans, as if it belonged to themselves. They are amateurs of virtue, as of the pictures their galleries possess; but Alfieri has not created anything that may be called the Italian drama; that is, a school of tragedy, in which a merit peculiar to Italy may be found. He has not even characterized the manners of the times and countries he selected. His 'Pazzi,' 'Virginia,' and 'Philip II.' are replete with powerful and elevated thought; but you everywhere find the impress of Alfieri, not that of the scene nor of the period assumed. Widely as he differs from all French authors in most respects, he resembles them in the habit of painting every subject he touches with the hues of his own mind." At this allusion, d'Erfeuil observed: "It would be impossible for us to brook on our stage either the insignificance of the Grecians, or the monstrosities of Shakspeare. The French have too much taste. Our drama stands alone for elegance and delicacy: to introduce anything foreign, were to plunge us into barbarism."—"You would as soon think of surrounding France with the great wall of China!" said Corinne, smiling: "yet the rare beauties of your tragic authors would be better developed, if you would sometimes permit others besides Frenchmen to appear in their scenes. But we, poor Italians, would lose much, by confining ourselves to rules that must confer on us less honor than constraint. The national character ought to form the national theatre. We love the fine arts, music, scenery, even pantomime; all, in fact, that strikes our senses, how, then, can a drama, of which eloquence is the best charm, content us? In vain did Alfieri strive to reduce us to this; he himself felt that his system was too rigorous.[2] His 'Saul,' Maffei's 'Merope,' Monti's 'Aristodemus,' above all, the poetry of Dante (though he never wrote a tragedy), seem to give the best notion of what the dramatic art might become here. In 'Merope' the action is simple, but the language glorious; why should such style be interdicted in our plays? Verse becomes so magnificent in Italian, that we ought to be the last people to renounce its beauty. Alfieri, who, when he pleased, could excel in every way, has in his 'Saul' made superb use of lyric poetry; and, indeed, music itself might there be very happily introduced; not to interrupt the dialogue, but to calm the fury of the king, by the harp of David. We possess such delicious music, as may well inebriate all mental power; we ought, therefore, instead of separating, to unite these attributes; not by making our heroes sing, which destroys their dignity, but by choruses, like those of the ancients, connected by natural links with the main situation, as often happens in real life. Far from rendering the Italian drama less imaginative, I think we ought in every way to increase the illusive pleasure of the audience. Our lively taste for music, ballet and spectacle, is a proof of powerful fancy, and a necessity to interest ourselves incessantly, even in thus sporting with serious images, instead of rendering them more severe than they need be, as did Alfieri. We think it our duty to applaud whatever is grave and majestic, but soon return to our natural tastes; and are satisfied with any tragedy, so it be embellished by that variety which the English and Spaniards so highly appreciate. Monti's 'Aristodemus' partakes the terrible pathos of Dante; and has surely a just title to our pride. Dante, so versatile a master-spirit, possessed a tragic genius, which would have produced a grand effect, if he could have adapted it to the stage: he knew how to set before the eye whatever passed in the soul; he made us not only feel but look upon despair. Had he written plays, they must have affected young and old, the many as well as the few. Dramatic literature must be in some way popular; a whole nation constitute its judges."—"Since the time of Dante," said Oswald, "Italy has played a great political part—ere it can boast a national tragic school, great events must call forth, in real life, the emotions which become the stage. Of all literary chefs-d'œuvres, a tragedy most thoroughly belongs to a whole people: the author's genius is matured by the public spirit of his audience; by the government and manners of his country; by all, in fact, which recurs each day to the mind, forming the moral being, even as the air we breathe invigorates our physical life. The Spaniards, whom you resemble in climate and in creed, have nevertheless, far more dramatic talent. Their pieces are drawn from their history, their chivalry, and religious faith; they are original and animated. Their success in this way may restore them to their former fame as a nation; but how can we found in Italy a style of tragedy which she has never possessed?"—"I have better hopes, my Lord," returned Corinne, "from the soaring spirits that are among us, though unfavored as yet by circumstances; but what we most need is histrionic ability. Affected language induces false declamation; yet there is no tongue in which a great actor could evince more potency than in our own; for melodious sounds lend an added charm to just accentuation, without robbing it of its force."—"If you would convince us of this," interrupted Castel Forte, "do so, by giving us the inexpressible pleasure of seeing you in tragedy; you surely consider your foreign friends worthy of witnessing the talent which you monopolize in Italy; and in which (as your own soul is peculiarly expressed in it) you can have no superior on earth." Corinne secretly desired to perform before Oswald, and thus appear to the best advantage; but she could not consent without his approval: her looks requested it. He understood them; and, ambitious that she should charm Mr. Edgarmond in a manner which her yesterday's timidity had prevented, he joined his solicitations to those of her other guests. She hesitated no longer.—"Well, then," she said to Castel Forte, "we will, if you please, accomplish a long-formed scheme of mine, that of playing my translation of 'Romeo and Juliet.'"—"What!" exclaimed Edgarmond, "Do you understand English and love Shakspeare?"—"As a friend," she replied.—"And you will play Juliet in Italian? and I shall hear you? and you, too, dear Nevil! How happy you will be!" Then, instantly repenting his indiscretion, he blushed. The blush of delicacy and kindness is at all ages interesting.—"How happy we shall be," he added with embarrassment, "if we may be present at such a mental banquet!"