Corinne; or, Italy

"These," said Corinne, "are the words your father addresses to you from above."—"True," sighed Oswald, "consoling angel! how you cheer me; yet could I but have see him for a moment, ere he died—could I have said how unworthy of him I felt myself, and been believed, I should not tremble like the guiltiest of mankind. I should not evince the vacillation of conduct and gloom of soul which can promise happiness to no one. Courage must be born of conscience; how then should it triumph over her? Even now, as the darkness closes in, methinks I see, in yon cloud, the thunderbolt that is armed against me. Corinne, Corinne! comfort your unhappy lover, or leave me on the earth, which, perhaps, will open at my cries, and let me descend to the abode of death."[6]

BOOK XIII.

VESUVIUS, AND THE CAMPAGNA OF NAPLES.

CHAPTER I.

Lord Nevil remained long exhausted after the trying recital which had thrilled him to the soul. Corinne gently strove to revive him. The river of flame which fell from Vesuvius fearfully excited his imagination. She availed herself of this, in order to draw him from his own recollections, and begged him to walk with her on the banks of once inflamed lava. The ground they crossed glowed beneath their steps, and seemed to warm them from a spot so hostile to all life. Man could not here call himself "lord of the creation;" it seemed escaping from his tyranny by suicide. The torrent of fire is of a dusky hue, yet when it lights a vine, or any other tree, it sends forth a clear bright blaze; but the lava itself is of that lurid tint, which might represent infernal fire; it rolls on with a crackling sound, that alarms the more from its slightness—cunning seems joined with strength; thus secretly steals the tiger to his prey. This cataract, though so deliberate, loses not a moment; if it encounter a high wall, or anything that opposes its progress, it heaps against the obstacle its black and bituminous flood, and buries it beneath burning waves. Its course is not so rapid but that men may fly before it; but like Time, it overtakes the old or the imprudent, who, from its silent approach, think to escape without exertion. Its brightness is such that earth is reflected in the sky, which appears lapped in perpetual lightning; this, too, is mirrored by the sea, and all nature clothed in their threefold fires. The wind is heard, and its effect perceived, as it forms a whirlpool of flame round the gulf whence the lava issues; one trembles to guess at what is passing in the bosom of the earth, whose fury shakes the ground beneath our steps. The rocks about the source of this flood are covered with pitch and sulphur, whose colors, indeed, might suit the home of fiends—a livid green, a tawny brown, and an ensanguined red, form just that dissonance to the eye of which the ear were sensible, if pierced by the harsh cries of witches, conjuring down the moon from heaven. All that is near the volcano bears so supernal an aspect, that doubtless the poets thence drew their portraitures of hell. There we may conceive how man was first persuaded that a power of evil existed to thwart the designs of Providence. Well may one ask, in such a scene, if mercy alone presides over the phenomena of creation; or if some hidden principle forces natures, like her sons, into ferocity? "Corinne," sighed Nevil, "is it not from hence that sorrow comes? Does the angel of death take wing from yon summit? If I beheld not thy heavenly face, I should lose all memory of the charms with which the Eternal has adorned the earth; yet this spectacle, frightful as it is, overawes me less than conscience. All perils may be braved; but how can the dead absolve us for the wrongs we did them living? Never, never. Ah, Corinne! what need of fires like these? The wheel that turns incessantly, the stream that tempts and flies, the stone that rolls back the more we would impel it on—these are but feeble images of that dread thought, the impossible, the irreparable!" A deep silence now reigned around Oswald and Corinne; their very guides were far behind; and near the crater naught was heard save the hissing of its fires; suddenly, however, one sound from the city reached even this region—the chime of bells, perhaps announcing a death, perhaps a birth, it mattered not—most welcome was it to our travellers. "Dear Oswald," said Corinne, "let us leave this desert, and return to the living world. Other mountains raise us above terrestrial life, and bring us nearer Heaven, but here nature seems treated as a criminal, and condemned no more to taste the beneficent breath of her Creator. This is no sojourn for the good—let us descend." An abundant shower fell as they sought the plain, threatening each instant to extinguish their torches: the Lazzaroni accompanied them with yells that might alarm any one who knew not that such was their constant custom. These men are sometimes agitated by a superfluity of life, with which they know not what to do, uniting equal degrees of violence and sloth. Their physiognomy, more marked, than their characters, seem to indicate a kind of vivacity in which neither mind nor heart are at all concerned. Oswald, uneasy lest the rain should hurt Corinne, and lest their lights should fail, was absorbed by this indefinite sense of her danger; and his tenderness by degrees restored that composure which had been disturbed by the confidence he had made to her. They regained their carriage at the foot of the mountain, and stopped not at the ruins of Herculaneum, which are, as it were, buried afresh beneath the buildings of Portici. They arrived at Naples near midnight, and Corinne promised Nevil, as they took leave, to give him the history of her life on the morrow.

CHAPTER II.

The next morning Corinne resolved to impose on herself the effort she had promised: the intimate knowledge of Oswald's character which she had acquired redoubled her inquietude. She left her chamber, carrying what she had written in a trembling yet determined hand. She entered the sitting-room of their hotel. Oswald was there: he had just received letters from England. One of them lay on the mantel-piece: its direction caught her eye, and, with inexpressible anxiety, she asked from whom it came. "From Lady Edgarmond," replied Nevil.—"Do you correspond with her?" added Corinne.—"Her late lord was my father's friend," he said; "and since chance has introduced the subject, I will not conceal from you that they thought it might one day suit me to marry the daughter, Lucy."—"Great God!" cried Corinne, and sank, half fainting, on a seat.—"What means this?" demanded Oswald; "Corinne, what can you fear from one who loves you to idolatry? Had my parent's dying command been my union with Miss Edgarmond, I certainly should not now be free, and would have flown from your resistless spells; but he merely advised the match, writing me word that he could form no judgment of Lucy's character, as she was still a child. I have seen her but once, when scarcely twelve years old. I made no arrangement with her mother; yet the indecision of my conduct, I own, has sprung solely from this wish of my father's. Ere I met you, I hoped for power to complete it, as a sort of expiation, and to prolong, beyond his death, the empire of his will; but you have triumphed over my whole being, and I now desire but your pardon for what must have appeared so weak and irresolute in my conduct. Corinne, we seldom entirely recover from such griefs as I have experienced: they blight our hopes, and instil a painful timidity of the future. Fate had so injured me, that even while she offered the greatest of earthly blessings I could not trust her: but these doubts are over, love: I am thine forever, assured that, had my father known thee, he would have chosen such a companion for my life."—"Hold!" wept forth Corinne: "I conjure you, speak not thus to me."—"Why," said Oswald, "why thus constantly oppose the pleasure I take in blending your image with his? thus wedding the two dearest and most sacred feelings of my heart?"—"You cannot," returned Corinne; "too well I know you cannot."—"Just Heaven! what have you to tell me, then? Give me that history of your life."—"I will; but let me beg a week's delay, only a week: what I have just learned obliges me to add a few particulars."—"How!" said Oswald, "what connection have you——"—"Do not exact my answer now," interrupted Corinne. "You will soon know all, and that, perhaps, will be the end, the dreaded end of my felicity; but ere it comes, let us explore together the Campagna of Naples, with minds still accessible to the charms of nature. In these fair scenes will I so celebrate the most solemn era of my life, that you must cherish some memory of Corinne, such as she was, and might have ever been, had she not loved you, Oswald."—"Corinne, what mean these hints? You can have nothing to disclose which ought to chill my tender admiration; why then prolong the mystery that raises barriers between us?"—"Dear Oswald, 'tis my will: pardon me this last act of power: soon you alone will decide for us both. I shall hear my sentence from your lips, unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel; for I have on this earth nor love nor duty condemning me to live when you are lost." She withdrew, gently repulsing Oswald, who would fain have followed her.

CHAPTER III.

Corinne decided on giving a fête, united as the idea was with melancholy associations. She knew she must be judged as a poet, as an artist, ere she could be pardoned for the sacrifice of her rank, her family, her name, to her enthusiasm. Lord Nevil was indeed capable of appreciating genius, but, in his opinion, the relations of social life overruled all others; and the highest destiny of woman, nay of man too, he thought was accomplished, not by the exercise of intellectual faculties, but by the fulfilment of domestic duties. Remorse, in driving him from the false path in which he had strayed, fortified the moral principles innately his. The manners and habits of England, a country where such respect for law and duty exists, held, in many respects, a strict control over him. Indeed, the discouragement deep sorrows inculcate, teaches men to love that natural order which requires no new resolves, no decision contrary to the circumstances marked for us by fate. Oswald's love for Corinne modified his every feeling; but love never wholly effaces the original character, which she perceived through the passion that now lorded over it; and, perhaps, his ruling charm consisted in the opposition of his character to his attachment, giving added value to every pledge of his love. But the hour drew nigh when the fleeting fears she had constantly banished, and which had but slightly disturbed her dream of joy, were to decide her fate. Her mind, formed for delight, accustomed to the various moods of poetry and talent, was wonder-struck at the sharp fixedness of grief; a shudder thrilled her heart, such as no woman long resigned to suffering ever knew. Yet, in the midst of the most torturing fears, she secretly prepared for the one more brilliant evening she might pass with Oswald. Fancy and feeling were thus romantically blended. She invited the English who were there, and some Neapolitans whose society pleased her. On the day chosen for this fête, whose morrow might destroy her happiness forever, a singular wildness animated her features, and lent them quite a new expression. Careless eyes might have mistaken it for that of joy; but her rapid and agitated movements, her looks that rested nowhere, proved but too plainly to Nevil the struggle in her heart. Vainly he strove to soothe her by tender protestations. "You shall repeat them two days hence, if you will," she said; "now these soft words but mock me." The carriages of Corinne's party arrived at the close of day, just as the sea-breeze refreshed the air, inviting man to the contemplation of nature. They went first to Virgil's tomb. It overlooks the bay of Naples; and such is the magnificent repose of this spot, that one is tempted to believe the bard himself must have selected it. These simple words from his Georgies might have served him for epitaph:——

"Illo Virgilium me tempore dulcis alebat Parthenope."

"Then did the soft Parthenope receive me."

His ashes here repose, and attract universal homage—all, all that man on earth can steal from death. Petrarch set a laurel beside them—like its planter, it is dead. He alone was worthy to have left a lasting trace near such a grave. One feels disgust at the crowd of ignoble names traced by strangers on the walls about the urn; they trouble the peace of this classic solitude. Its present visitants left it in silence, musing over the images immortalized by the Mantuan. Blest intercourse between the past and future! which the art of writing perpetually renews. Shadow of death, what art thou? Man's thoughts survive; can he then be no more? Such contradiction is impossible. "Oswald," said Corinne, "these impressions are strange preparatives for a fête; yet," she added, with wild sublimity, "how many fêtes are held thus near the grave!"—"My life," he said, "whence all this secret dread? Confide in me; for six months have I owed you everything; perhaps have shed some pleasure over your path. Who then can err so impiously against happiness as to dash down the supreme bliss of soothing such a soul? it is much to feel one's self of use to the most humble mortal; but Corinne! to be her comfort! trust me, is a glory too delicious to renounce."—"I believe your promises," she said; "yet there are moments when something strange and new seizes the heart, and hurries it thus sadly." They passed through the Grotto of Pausilipo by torchlight, as indeed would have been the case at noon; for it extends nearly a quarter of a league beneath the mountain; and in the centre, the light of day, admitted at either extremity, is scarcely visible. In this long vault the tramp of steeds and cries of their drivers resound so stunningly that they deaden all thought in the brain. Corinne's horses drew her carriage with astonishing rapidity; yet did she say: "Dear Nevil, how slowly we advance! pray hasten them."—"Why thus impatient?" he asked; "formerly, while we were together, you sought not to expedite time, but to enjoy it."—"Yet now," she said, "all must be decision; everything must come to an end; and I would hasten it, were it my death." On leaving the grotto, you feel a lively sensation at regaining daylight and the open country; such a country, too! What are so often missed in Italy, fine trees, here flourish in abundance. Italian earth is everywhere so spread with flowers that woods may better be dispensed with here than in most other lands. The heat at Naples is so great that, even in the shade, it is impossible to walk by day: but in the evening the sea and sky alike shed freshness through the transparent air; the mountains are so picturesque that painters love to select their landscapes from a country whose original charm can be explained by no comparison with other realms. "I lead ye," said Corinne, to those near her, "through the fair scene celebrated by the name of Baiæ; we will not pause there now, but gather its recollections into the moment when we reach the spot which sets them all before us." It was on the Cape of Micena that she had prepared her fête; nothing could be more tastefully arranged. Sailors, in habits of contrasted hues, and some Orientalists from a Levantine barque then in the port, danced with the peasant girls from Ischia and Procida, whose costume still preserves a Grecian grace; sweet voices were heard singing from a distance; and instrumental music answered from behind the rocks. It was like echo echoed by sounds that lost themselves in the sea. The softness of the air animated all around—even Corinne herself. She was entreated to dance among the rustics; at first, she consented with pleasure; but scarcely had she begun, ere her forebodings rendered all amusement odious to her, and she withdrew to the extreme verge of the cape; thither Oswald followed, with others, who now begged her to extemporize in this lovely scene; her emotions were such that she permitted them to lead her towards the elevation on which they had placed her lyre, without power to comprehend what they expected.

CHAPTER IV.

Still, Corinne desired that Oswald should once more hear her, as on the day at the Capitol. If the talent with which Heaven had gifted her was about to be extinguished forever, she wished its last rays to shine on him she loved: these very fears afforded her the inspiration she required. Her friends were impatient to hear her. Even the common people knew her fame; and, as imagination rendered them judges of poetry, they closed silently round, their eager faces expressing the deepest attention. The moon arose; but the last beams of day still paled her light. From the top of the small hill that, standing over the sea, forms the Cape of Micena, Vesuvius is plainly seen, and the bay and isles that stud its bosom. With one consent, the friends of Corinne begged her to sing the memories that scene recalled. She tuned her lyre, and began with a broken voice. Her look was beautiful; but one who knew her, as Oswald did, could there read the trouble of her soul. She strove, however, to restrain her feelings; and once more, if but for awhile, to soar above her personal situation.

CORINNE'S CHANT IN THE VICINITY OF NAPLES.

Ay, Nature, History, and Poesie,
Rival each other's greatness;—here the eye
Sweeps with a glance, all wonders and all time.
A dead volcano now, I see thy lake
Avernus, with the fear-inspiring waves,
Acheron, and Phlégeton boiling up
With subterranean flame: these are the streams
Of that old hell Æneas visited.

Fire, the devouring life which first creates
The world which it consumes, struck terror most
When least its laws were known.—Ah! Nature then
Reveal'd her secrets but to Poetry.

The town of Cuma and the Sibyl's cave,
The temple of Apollo mark'd this height;
Here is the wood where grew the bough of gold.
The country of the Æneid is around;
The fables genius consecrated here
Are memories whose traces still we seek.

A Triton has beneath these billows plunged
The daring Trojan, who in song defied
The sea divinities: still are the rocks
Hollow and sounding, such as Virgil told.
Imagination's truth is from its power:
Man's genius can create when nature's felt;
He copies when he deems that he invents.

Amid these masses, terrible and old,
Creation's witnesses, you see arise
A younger hill of the volcano born:
For here the earth is stormy as the sea,
But doth not, like the sea, peaceful return
Within its bounds: the heavy element,
Upshaken by the tremulous abyss,
Digs valleys, and rears mountains; while the waves,
Harden'd to stone, attest the storms which rend
Her depths; strike now upon the earth,
You hear the subterranean vault resound.
It is as if the ground on which we dwell
Were but a surface ready to unclose.
Naples! how doth thy country likeness bear
To human passions; fertile; sulphurous:
Its dangers and its pleasures both seem born
Of those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow
Upon the atmosphere so many charms,
Yet bid the thunder growl beneath our feet.

Pliny but studied nature that the more
He might love Italy; and call'd his land
The loveliest, when all other titles fail'd.
He sought for science as a warrior seeks
For conquest: it was from this very cape
He went to watch Vesuvius through the flames:
Those flames consumed him.

O Memory! noble power! thy reign is here.
Strange destiny, how thus, from age to age,
Doth man complain of that which he has lost.
Still do departed years, each in their turn,
Seem treasures of happiness gone by;
And while mind, joyful in its far advance,
Plunges amid the future, still the Soul
Seems to regret some other ancient home
To which it is drawn closer by the past.

We envy Roman grandeur—did they not
Envy their fathers' brave simplicity?
Once this voluptuous country they despised;
Its pleasures but subdued their enemies.
See, in the distance, Capua! she o'ercame
The warrior, whose firm soul resisted Rome
More time than did a world.

The Romans in their turn dwelt on these plains,
When strength of mind but only served to feel
More deeply shame and grief; effeminate
They sank without remorse. Yet Baiæ saw
The conquer'd sea give place to palaces:
Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain,
And the world's masters, now in their turn slaves,
Made nature subject to console themselves
That they were subject too.

And Cicero on this promontory died:
This Gaëta we see. Ah! no regard
Those triumvirs paid to posterity,
Robbing her of the thoughts yet unconceived
Of this great man: their crime continues still;
Committed against us was this offence.

Cicero 'neath the tyrant's dagger fell,
But Scipio, more unhappy, was exiled
With yet his country free. Beside this shore
He died; and still the ruins of his tomb
Retain the name, "Tower of my native land:"[1]
Touching allusion to the memory
Which haunted his great soul.

Marius found a refuge in yon marsh,[2]
to the Scipios' home. Thus in all time
Have nations persecuted their great men.
But they enskied them after death;[3] and heaven,
Where still the Romans deem'd they could command,
Received amid her planets Romulus,
Numa, and Cæsar; new and dazzling stars!
Mingling together in our erring gaze
The rays of glory and celestial light.

And not enough alone of misery,
The trace of crime is here. In yonder gulf behold
The isle of Capri, where at length old age
Disarm'd Tiberius; violent, yet worn;
Cruel, voluptuous; wearied e'en of crime,
He sought yet viler pleasures; as he were
Not low enough debased by tyranny.
And Agrippina's tomb is on these shores,
Facing the isle,[4] reared after Nero's death;
The murderer of his mother had proscribed
Even her ashes. Long at Baiæ he dwelt
Amid the memories of his many crimes.
What wretches fate here brings before our eyes!
Tiberius, Nero, on each other gaze.

The isles, volcano-born amid the sea,
Served at their birth the crimes of the old world.
The sorrowing exiles on these lonely rocks,
Watched 'mid the waves their native land afar,
Seeking to catch its perfumes in the air:
And often, a long exile worn away,
Sentence of sudden death arrived to show
They were remember'd by their enemies.

O Earth! all bathed with blood and tears, yet never
Hast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and flowers;
And hast thou then no pity for mankind?
Can thy maternal breast receive again
Their dust, and yet not throb?
L. E. L.

Here Corinne paused for some moments. All her assembled hearers threw laurels and myrtle at her feet. The soft pure moonlight fell on her brow, and the breeze wantoned with her ringlets as if nature delighted to adorn her: she was so overpowered as she looked on the enchanting scene, and on Oswald, who shared this delicious eve with her, yet might not be thus near forever, that tears flowed from her eyes. Even the crowd, who had just applauded her so tumultuously, respected her emotion, and mutely awaited her words, which they trusted would make them participators in her feelings. She preluded for some time on her lyre, then, no longer dividing her song into stanzas, abandoned herself to the uninterrupted stream of verse.

Some memories of the heart, some women's manes
Yet ask your tears. 'Twas at this very place,
Massena,[5] that Cornelia kept till death
Her noble mourning; Agrippina too
Long wept Germanicus beside these shores.
At length the same assassin who deprived
Her of her husband found she was at last
Worthy to follow him. And yonder isle[6]
Saw Brutus and his Portia bid farewell.

Thus women loved of heroes have beheld
The object perish which they so adored.
Long time in vain they follow'd in their path;
There came the hour when they were forced to part.
Portia destroy'd herself; Cornelia clasp'd
The sacred urn which answer'd not her cries;
And Agrippina, for how many years!
Vainly her husband's murderer defied.
And wander'd here the wretched ones, like ghosts
On wasted shores of the eternal stream,
Sighing to reach the other far-off land.
Did they not ask in their long solitude
Of silence, of all nature, of the sky,
Star-shining?—and from the deep sea, one sound,
One only tone of the beloved voice
They never more might hear.

Mysterious enthusiasm, Love!
The heart's supremest power;—which doth combine
Within itself religion, poetry,
And heroism. Love, what may befall
When destiny has bade us separate
From him who has the secret of our soul;
Who gave us the heart's life, celestial life.
What may befall when absence, or when death
Isolate woman on this earth?—She pines,
She sinks. How often have these rocks
Offer'd their cold support to the forlorn!
Those once worn in the heart;—those once sustain'd
Upon a hero's arm

Before you is Sorrento:—dwelling there
Was Tasso's sister, when the pilgrim came
Asking asylum 'gainst the prince unjust
From humble friends: long grief had almost quench'd
Reason's clear light, but genius still was left.
Yet kept he knowledge of the things divine,
When earthly images were all obscured.
Thus shrinking from the desert spread around.
Doth Genius wander through the world, and finds
No likeness to itself; no echo given
By Nature; and the common crowd but hold
As madness that desire of the rapt soul,
Which finds not in this world enough of air—
Of high enthusiasm, or of hope.
For Destiny compels exalted minds;—
The poet, whose imagination draws
Its power from loving and from suffering—
They are the vanish'd from another sphere.
For the Almighty goodness might not frame
All for the few—th' elect or the proscribed.
Why spoke the ancients with such awe of Fate?
What had this terrible Fate to do with them,
The common and the quiet, who pursue
The seasons, and still follow timidly
The beaten track of ordinary life?
But she, the priestess of the oracle,
Shook with the presence of the cruel power.
I know not what the involuntary force
That plunges Genius into misery.
Genius doth catch the music of the spheres,
Which mortal ear was never meant to know.
Genius can penetrate the mysteries
Of feeling, all unknown to other hearts;
A power hath entered in the inmost soul,
Whose presence may not be contained.

Sublime Creator of this lovely world,
Protect us: our exertions have no strength;
Our hope's a lie. Tumultuous tyranny
Our passions exercise, and neither leave
Repose nor liberty. What we may do
To-morrow may perhaps decide our fate.
We may have said but yesterday some word
Which may not be recalled. Still, when our mind
Is elevate with noblest thoughts, we feel
As on the height of some great edifice,
Giddiness blending all things in our sight;
But even there, woe! terrible woe! appears.
Not lost amid the clouds, it pierces through;
It flings the shades asunder; O my God!
What doth it herald to us?"
L. E. L.

At these words, a mortal paleness overspread her countenance; her eyes closed; and she would have fallen to the earth, had not Oswald rushed to support her.

CHAPTER V.

Corinne revived: the affecting interest of Oswald's look restored her to some composure. The Neapolitans were surprised at the gloomy character of her poetry, much as they admired it. They thought it the Muse's task to dissipate the cares of life, and not to explore their terrible secrets; but the English who were present seemed deeply touched. Their own melancholy, embellished by Italian imagination, delighted them. This lovely woman, whose features seemed designed to depict felicity—this child of the sun, a prey to hidden grief—was like a flower, still fresh and brilliant, but within whose leaves may be seen the first dark impress of that withering blight which soon shall lay it low. The party embarked to return: the glowing calm of the hour made it a luxury to be upon the sea. Goëthe has described, in a delicious romance, the passion felt in warm climates, for the water. A nymph of the flood boasts to the fisherman the charms of her abode; invites him to taste its refreshment, and, by degrees, allures him to his death. This magic of the tide resembles that of the basilisk, which fascinates by fear. The wave rising gently afar, swelling, and hurrying as it nears the shore, is but a type of passion, that dawns in softness, but soon grows invincible. Corinne put back her tresses, that she might better enjoy the air: her countenance was thus more beautiful than ever. The musicians, who followed in another boat, poured forth enchantments that harmonized with the stars, the sea, and the sweet intoxication of an Italian evening. "Oh, my heart's love!" whispered Oswald, "can I ever forget this day, or ever enjoy a happier?" His eyes filled with tears. One of his most seductive attributes was this ready yet restrained sensibility, which so oft, in spite of him, bedewed his lids: at such moments he was irresistible: sometimes even in the midst of an endearing pleasantry, a melting thrill stole on his mirth, and lent it a new, a noble charm. "Alas!" returned Corinne, "I hope not for another day like this; but be it blest, at least, as the last such of my life, if forbidden to prove the dawn of more endearing bliss."

CHAPTER VI.

The weather changed ere they reached Naples: the heavens darkened, and the coming storm, already felt in the air, convulsed the waves, as if the sea sympathized with the sky. Oswald preceded Corinne, that he might see the flambeaux borne the more steadily before her. As they neared the quay, he saw some Lazzaroni assembled, crying "Poor creature! he cannot save himself! we must be patient."—"Of whom speak ye?" cried Nevil, impetuously.—"An old man," they replied, "who was bathing below there, not far from the mole; but the storm has risen: he is too weak to struggle with it." Oswald's first impulse was to plunge into the water; then, reflecting on the alarm he should cause Corinne, when she came, he offered all the money he had with him, promising to double it, for the man who would swim to this unfortunate being's assistance; but the Lazzaroni all refused, saying: "It cannot be, the danger is too fearful." At that moment the old man sunk. Oswald could hesitate no longer: he threw off his coat, and sprang into the sea, spite of its waves, that dashed above his head: he buffeted them bravely; seized the sufferer, who must have perished had he been a moment later, and brought him to the land; but the sudden chill and violent exertion so overwhelmed Lord Nevil, that he had scarcely seen his charge in safety, when he fell on the earth insensible, and so pallid, that the bystanders believed him a corpse.[1] It was then that the unconscious Corinne beheld the crowd, heard them cry, "He is dead," and would have drawn back in terror; when she saw one of the Englishmen who had accompanied her, break eagerly through the people: she made some steps to follow him; and the first object which met her eye was a portion of Oswald's dress, lying on the bank. She seized it with desperation, believing it all that was left of her love; and when she saw him, lifeless as he appeared, she threw herself on his breast, in transport, and ardently pressed him to her heart: with what inexpressible rapture did she detect that his still beat, perhaps reanimated by her presence! "He lives!" she cried, "he lives!" and instantly regained a strength, a courage, such as his mere friends could scarcely equal. She sent for everything that could revive him: and herself applied these restoratives, supporting his fainting head upon her breast, and, though she wept over it, forgetting nothing, losing not a moment, nor permitting her grief to interrupt her cares. Oswald grew better, but resumed not yet the use of his senses. She had him carried to his hotel, and, kneeling beside him, bathed his brow with stimulating perfumes, calling on him in tones of impassioned tenderness that might have waked the dead. He opened his eyes, and pressed her hand. For the joy of such a moment might one not endure the tortures of demons? Poor human nature! We guess at infinitude but by suffering; and not a bliss in life can compensate the anguish of beholding those we love expire. "Cruel, cruel!" cried Corinne; "think what you have done!"—"Pardon," he replied, in a trembling voice. "Believe me, dearest, while I thought myself dying, I trembled but for thee." Exquisite expression of mutual love and confidence! Corinne, to her last day, could not recall those words without a fondness, which, while it lasted, taught her to forgive him all.

CHAPTER VII.

Oswald's next impulse was to thrust his hand into his bosom for his father's portrait; it was still there; but the water had left it scarcely recognizable; he was bitterly afflicted by this loss. "My God!" he cried, "dost thou deny me even his image?" Corinne besought his permission to restore it: he consented, without much hope; what then was his amaze when, on the third morning she brought it to him, not only repaired, but more faithful than ever! "Yes," cried Oswald, "you have divined his features and his look. This heavenly miracle decides you for my life's companion, since to you is thus revealed the memory of one who must forever dispose my fate. Here is the ring my father gave his wife—the sacred bond sincerely offered by the noblest, and accepted by the most constant of hearts. Let me transfer it from my hand to thine, and, while thou keepest it, be no longer free. I take this solemn oath, not knowing to whom, but in thy soul I trust, that tells me all: the events of your life, if springing from yourself, must needs be lofty as your character. If you have been the victim to an unworthy fate, thank Heaven I can repair it; therefore, my own Corinne, you owe your secrets to one whose promises precede your confidence."—"Oswald," she answered, "this delirium is the result of a mistake. I cannot accept your ring till I have undeceived you. An inspiration of the heart, you think, taught me your father's features: I ought to tell you that I have seen him often."—"Seen him! how? when? where? O God! who are you, then?"—"Here is your ring," returned Corinne, in a smothered tone.—"No," cried Oswald, after a moment's pause; "I swear never to wed another till you send back that ring. Forgive the tumult you have raised within me; confused and half-forgotten thoughts afflict my mind."—"I see it," said Corinne; "and this shall end: already your accents and your words are changed. Perhaps when you have read my history, the horrid word adieu——"—"No, no," cried Nevil; "only from my death-bed—fear not that word till then." Corinne retired, and, in a few moments, Thérésina brought him the papers which he was now to read.

BOOK XIV.

HISTORY OF CORINNE.

CHAPTER I.

"Oswald, I begin with the avowal which must determine my fate. If, after reading it, you find it impossible to pardon, do not finish this letter, but reject and banish me; yet if, when you know the name and destiny I have renounced, all is not broken between us, what follows may then serve as my excuse.

"Lord Edgarmond was my father. I was born in Italy: his first wife was a Roman; and Lucy, whom they intended for your bride, is my sister, by an English lady—by my father's second marriage. Now, hear me! I lost my mother ere I was ten years old, and, as it was her dying wish that my education should be finished ere I went to England, I was confided to an aunt at Florence, with whom I lived till I was fifteen. My tastes and talents were formed ere her death induced Lord Edgarmond to have me with him. He lived at a small town in Northumberland, which cannot, I suppose, give any idea of England; yet was all I knew of it for six years. My mother, from my infancy, impressed on me the misery of not living in Italy; my aunt had often added, that this fear of quitting her country had broken her heart. My good aunt herself was persuaded, too, that a Catholic would be condemned to perdition for settling in a Protestant country; and though I was not infected by this fear, the thought of going to England alarmed me much. I set forth with an inexplicable sense of sadness. The woman sent for me did not understand a word of Italian. I spoke it now and then to console my poor Thérésina, who had consented to follow me, though she wept incessantly at leaving her country; but I knew that I must unlearn the habit of breathing the sweet sounds so welcome even to foreigners, and, for me, associated with all the recollections of my childhood. I approached the north unable to comprehend the cause of my own changed and sombre sensations. It was five years since I had seen my father. I hardly recognized him when I reached his house. Methought his countenance was very grave; yet he received me with tenderness, and told me I was extremely like my mother. My half-sister, then three years of age, was brought to me: her skin was fairer, her silken curls more golden than I had ever seen before; we have hardly any such faces in Italy; she astonished and interested me from the first; that same day I cut off some of her ringlets for a bracelet, which I have preserved ever since. At last my step-mother appeared, and the impression made on me by her first look grew and deepened during the years I passed with her. Lady Edgarmond was exclusively attached to her native country; and my father, whom she overruled, sacrificed a residence in London or Edinburgh to her wishes. She was a cold, dignified, silent person, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child, but who usually wore so positive an air, that it appeared impossible to make her understand a new idea, or even one phrase to which she had not been accustomed. She met me politely, but I soon perceived that my whole manner amazed her, and that she proposed to change it, if she could. Not a word was said during dinner, though some neighbors had been invited. I was so tired of this silence, that, in the midst of our meal, I strove to converse a little with an old gentleman who sat beside me. I spoke English tolerably, as my father had taught me in childhood; but happening to cite some Italian poetry, purely delicate, in which there was some mention of love, my step-mother, who knew the language slightly, stared at me, blushed, and signed for the ladies, earlier than usual, to withdraw, prepare tea, and leave the men to themselves during the dessert.[1] I knew nothing of this custom, which 'would not be believed in Venice.'—Society agreeable without women!—For a moment I thought her ladyship so displeased that she could not remain in the same room with me; but I was reassured by her motioning me to follow, and never reverting to my fault during the three hours we passed in the drawing-room, waiting for the gentlemen. At supper, however, she told me, gently enough, that it was not usual in England for young ladies to talk; above all, they must never think of quoting poetry in which the name of love occurred. 'Miss Edgarmond,' she added, 'you must endeavor to forget all that belongs to Italy: it is to be wished that you had never known such a country.' I passed the night in tears, my heart was oppressed. In the morning, I attempted to walk: there was so tremendous a fog that I could not see the sun, which at least would have reminded me of my own land; but I met my father, who said to me: 'My dear child, it is not here as in Italy; our women have no occupations save their domestic duties. Your talents may beguile your solitude, and you may win a husband who will pride in them; but in a country town like this, all that attracts attention excites envy, and you will never marry at all if it is thought that you have foreign manners. Here, every one must submit to the old prejudices of an obscure county. I passed twelve years in Italy with your mother: their memory is very dear to me. I was young then, and novelty delightful. I have now returned to my original situation, and am quite comfortable; a regular, perhaps rather a monotonous life, makes time pass unperceived; one must not combat the habits of a place in which one is established; we should be the sufferers if we did, for, in a scene like this, everything is known, everything repeated; there is no room for emulation, but sufficient for jealousy; and it is better to bear a little ennui than to be beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons for what you do.'—My dear Oswald, you can form no idea of my anguish while my father spoke thus. I remembered him all grace and vivacity, and I saw him stooping beneath the leaden mantle which Dante invented for hell, and which mediocrity throws over all who submit to her yoke. Enthusiasm for nature and the arts seemed vanishing from my sight; and my soul, like a useless flame, consumed myself, having no longer any food from without. As I was naturally mild, my step-mother had nothing to complain of in my behavior towards her; and for my father, I loved him tenderly. A conversation with him was my only remaining pleasure; he was resigned, but he knew that he was so; while the generality of our country gentlemen drank, hunted, and slept, fancying such life the wisest and best in the world. Their content so perplexed me, that I asked myself if my own way of thinking was not a folly, and if this solid existence, which escaped grief, in avoiding thought and sentiment, was not far more enviable than mine. What would such a conviction have done for me? it must have taught me to deplore as a misfortune that genius which in Italy was regarded as a blessing from Heaven.

"Towards the close of autumn the pleasures of the chase frequently kept my father from home till midnight. During his absence I remained mostly in my own room, endeavoring to improve myself; this displeased Lady Edgarmond. 'What good will it do?' she said; 'will you be any the happier for it?' The words struck me with despair. What then is happiness, I thought, if it consist not in the development of our faculties? Might we not as well kill ourselves physically as morally? If I must stifle my mind, my soul, why preserve the miserable remains of life that would but agitate me in vain? But I was careful not to speak thus before my step-mother. I had essayed it once or twice, and her reply was, that women were made to manage their husbands' houses, and watch over the health of their children; all other accomplishments were dangerous, and the best advice she could give me was to hide those I possessed. This discourse, though so commonplace, was unanswerable; for enthusiasm is peculiarly dependent on encouragement, and withers like a flower beneath a dark or freezing sky. There is nothing easier than to assume a high moral air, while condemning all the attributes of an elevated spirit. Duty, the noblest destination of man, may be distorted, like all other ideas, into an offensive weapon by which narrow minds silence their superiors as their foes. One would think, if believing them, that duty enjoined the sacrifice of all the qualities that confer distinction; that wit were a fault, requiring the expiation of our leading precisely the same lives with those who have none; but does duty prescribe like rules to all characters? Are not great thoughts and generous feelings debts due to the world, from all who are capable of paying them? Ought not every woman, like every man, to follow the bent of her own talents? Must we imitate the instinct of the bees, whose every succeeding swarm copies the last, without improvement or variety? No, Oswald; pardon the pride of your Corinne, I believed myself intended for a different career. Yet I feel myself submissive to those I love as the females then around me, who had neither judgment nor wishes of their own. If it pleased you to pass your days in the heart of Scotland, I should be happy to live and die with you; but far from abjuring imagination, it would teach me the better to enjoy nature, and the further the empire of my mind extended, the more glory should I feel in declaring you its lord.

"Lady Edgarmond was almost as importunate respecting my thoughts as my actions. It sufficed not that I led the same life as herself, it must be from the same motives; for she wished all the faculties she did not share to be looked on as diseases. We lived pretty near the sea; at night, the north wind whistled through the long corridors of our old castle; by day, even when we reunited, it was wondrously favorable to our silence. The weather was cold and damp; I could scarce ever leave the house with pleasure. Nature, now, treated me with hostility, and deepened my regrets of her sweetness and benevolence in Italy. With the winter, we removed into the city, if so I may call a place without public buildings, theatre, music, or pictures.

"In the smallest Italian towns we have spectacles, improvisators, zeal for the fine arts, and a glorious sun; we feel that we live—but I almost forgot it in this assembly of gossips, this depository of disgusts, at once monotonous and varied. Births, deaths, and marriages, composed the history of our society; and these three events here differed not the least from what they are elsewhere. Figure to yourself what it must have been for me to be seated at a tea-table, many hours each day after dinner, with my step-mother's guests. These were the seven gravest women in Northumberland—two were old maids of fifty, timid as fifteen. One lady would say: 'My dear, do you think the water hot enough to pour on the tea?'—'My dear,' replied the other, 'I think it is too soon; the gentlemen are not ready yet.'—'Do you think they will sit late to-day, my dear?' says a third.—'I don't know,' answers a fourth; 'I believe the election takes place next week, so perhaps they are staying to talk over it.'—'No,' rejoins a fifth, 'I rather think they are occupied by the fox-hunt which occurred last week; there will be another on Monday; but for all that, I suppose they will come soon.'—'Ah! I hardly expect it,' sighs the sixth; and all again is silence.[2] The convents I had seen in Italy appeared all life to this; and I knew not what would become of me. Every quarter of an hour some voice was raised to ask an insipid question, which received a lukewarm reply; and ennui fell back with redoubled weight on these poor women, who must have thought themselves most miserable, had not habit from infancy instructed them to endure it. At last the gentlemen came up; yet this long hoped for moment brought no great change. They continued their conversation round the fire; the ladies sat in the centre of the room distributing cups of tea; and, when the hour of departure arrived, each went home with her husband, ready for another day, differing from the last merely by its date on the almanac. I cannot yet conceive how my talent escaped a mortal chill. There is no denying that every case has two sides; every subject may be attacked or defended; we may plead the cause of life, yet much is to be said for death, or a state thus resembling it. Such was my situation. My voice was a sound either useless or troublesome to its hearers. I could not, as in London or Edinburgh, enjoy the society of learned men, who, with a taste for intellectual conversation, would have appreciated that of a foreigner, even if she did not quite conform with the strict etiquettes of their country. I sometimes passed whole days with Lady Edgarmond and her friends, without hearing one word that echoed either thought or feeling, or beholding one expressive gesture. I looked on the faces of young girls, fair, fresh, and beautiful, but perfectly immovable. Strange union of contrasts! All ages partook of the same amusements; they drank tea, and played whist;[3] women grew old in this routine here. Time was sure not to miss them; he well knew where they were to be found.

"An automaton might have filled my place, and could have done all that was expected of me. In England, as elsewhere, the divers interests that do honor to humanity worthily occupy the leisure of men, whatever their retirement; but what remained for women in this isolated corner of the earth? Among the ladies who visited us there were some not deficient in mind, though they concealed it as a superfluity; and towards forty this slight impulse of the brain was benumbed like all the rest. Some of them I suspected, must, by reflection, have matured their natural abilities; sometimes a look or murmured accent told of thoughts that strayed from the beaten track; but the petty opinions, all-powerful in their own little sphere, repressed these inclinations. A woman was considered insane, or of doubtful virtue, if she ventured in any way to assert herself; and, what was worse than all these inconveniences, she could gain not one advantage by the attempt. At first, I endeavored to rouse this sleeping world. I proposed poetic readings and music, and a day was appointed for this purpose: but suddenly, one woman remembered that she had been three weeks invited to sup with her aunt; another, that she was in mourning for an old cousin she had never seen, and who had been dead for months; a third, that she had some domestic arrangements to make at home; all very reasonable; yet thus forever were intellectual pleasures rejected; and I so often heard them say, 'that cannot be done,' that, amid so many negations, not to live would have been to me the best of all. After some debates with myself I gave up my vain schemes, not that my father forbade them, he even enjoined his wife to cease tormenting me on my studies; but her insinuations, her stolen glances while I spoke, a thousand trivial hinderances, like the chains the Lilliputians wove round Gulliver, rendered it impossible for me to follow my own will; so I ended by doing as I saw others do, though dying of impatience and disgust. By the time I had passed four weary years thus, I really found, to my severe distress, that my mind grew dull, and, in spite of me, was filled by trifles. Where no interest is taken in science, literature, and liberal pursuits, mere facts and insignificant criticisms necessarily become the themes of discourse; and minds, strangers alike to activity and meditation, become so limited as to render all intercourse with them at once tasteless and oppressive. There was no enjoyment near me save in a certain methodical regularity, whose desire was that of reducing all things to its own level; a constant grief to characters called by heaven to destinies of their own. The ill-will I innocently excited, joined with my sense of the void all around me, seemed to check even my breath. Envy is only to be borne where it is excited by admiration; but oh the misery of living where jealousy itself awakens no enthusiasm! where we are hated as if powerful, though in fact allowed less influence than the obscurest of our rivals. It is impossible simply to despise the opinions of the herd: they sink, in spite of us, into the heart, and lie waiting the moments when our own superiority has involved us in distress; then, then, even an apparently temperate 'Well?' may prove the most insupportable word we can hear. In vain we tell ourselves, 'such a man is unworthy to judge me, such a woman is incapable of comprehending me:' the human face has great power over the human heart; and when we read there a secret disapprobation, it haunts us in defiance of our reason. The circle which surrounds you always hides the rest of the world: the smallest object close before your eyes intercepts their view of the sun. So is it with the set among whom we dwell: nor Europe nor posterity can render us insensible to the intrigues of our next door neighbor; and whoever would live happily in the cultivation of genius ought to be, above all things, cautious in the choice of his immediate mental atmosphere."