Corinne; or, Italy

CHAPTER II.

My only amusement was the education of my half-sister: her mother did not wish her to learn music, but permitted me to teach her drawing and Italian. I am persuaded that she must still remember both; for I owe her the justice to say that she, even then, evinced great intelligence. Oswald, if it was for your happiness I toiled, I shall bless my efforts, even from the grave. I was now nearly twenty: my father wished me to marry, and here the sad fatality of my life began. Lord Nevil was his intimate friend, and it was yourself of whom he thought as my husband. Had we then met and loved, our fate would have been cloudless. I had heard such praises of you, that, whether from presentiment or pride, I was extremely flattered with the hope of being your wife. You were too young, for I was eighteen months your elder; but your love of study, they said, outstripped your age; and I formed so sweet an idea of passing my days with such a character as yours was described, that I forgot all my prejudices against the way of life usual to women in England. I knew, besides, that you would settle in Edinburgh or London; in either place I was secure of finding congenial friends. I said then, as I think now, that all my wretchedness sprung from my being tied to a little town in the centre of a northern county. Great cities alone can suit those who deviate from hackneyed rules, if they design to live in society: as life is varied there, novelties are welcome; but where persons are content with a monotonous routine, they love not to be disturbed by the occasional diversion, which only shows them the tediousness of their every-day life. I am pleased to tell you, Oswald, though I had never seen you, that I looked forward with real anxiety to the arrival of your father, who was coming to pass a week with mine. The sentiment had then too little motive to have been aught less than a foreboding of my future. When I was presented to Lord Nevil, I desired, perhaps but too ardently, to please him; and did infinitely more than was required for success; displaying all my talents, dancing, singing, and extemporizing before him; my long imprisoned soul felt but too blest in breaking from its chain. Seven years of experience have calmed me. I am more accustomed to myself. I know how to wait. I have, perchance, less confidence in the kindness of others, less eagerness for their applause: indeed, it is possible that there was then something strange about me! We have so much fire and imprudence in early youth, one faces life with such vivacity! Mind, however distinguished, cannot supply the work of time; and though we may speak of the world as if we knew it, we never act up to our own views: there is a fever in our ideas that will not let our conduct conform with our reasonings. I believe, though not with certainty, that I appeared to Lord Nevil somewhat too wild; for though he treated me very amiably, yet, when he left my father, he said that, after due reflection, he thought his son too young for the marriage in question. Oswald, what importance do you attach to this confession? I might suppress it, but I will not. Is it possible, however, that it will prove my condemnation? I am, I know, tamed now: and could your parent have witnessed my love for you, Oswald—you were dear to him—we should have been heard. My step-mother now formed a project for marrying me to the son of her eldest brother, Mr. Maclinson, who had an estate in our neighborhood. He was a man of thirty, rich, handsome, highly born, and of honorable character; but so thoroughly convinced of a husband's right to govern, and a wife's duty to obey, that a doubt on this subject would as much have shocked him as a question of his own integrity. The rumors of my eccentricity did not alarm him. His house was so ordered, the same things were every day performed there so punctually to the minute, that any change was impossible. The two old aunts who directed his establishment, the servants, the very horses, could not to-morrow have acted differently from yesterday; nay, the furniture which had served three generations, would have started of its own accord, had anything new approached it. The effects of my arrival, therefore, might well be defined. Habit there reigned so securely, that any little liberties I might have taken would but have beguiled a quarter of an hour once a week, without being of any further consequence. Mr. Maclinson was a good man, incapable of giving pain; yet had I spoken to him of the innumerable annoyances which may torment an active or a feeling mind, he would have merely thought that I had the vapors, and bade me mount my horse to take an airing. He desired to marry me, because he knew nothing about the wishes of imaginative beings, and admired without understanding me: had he but guessed that I was a woman of genius, he might have feared that he could not please me; but no such anxiety ever entered his head. Judge my repugnance against such an union. I decidedly refused. My father supported me: his wife from this moment cherished the deepest resentment: she was a despot at heart, though timidity often prevented her explaining her will when it was not anticipated, she lost her temper; but if resisted, after she had made the effort of expressing it, she was the more unforgiving, for having been thus fruitlessly drawn from her wonted reserve. The whole town was loud in my blame. 'So proper a match, such a fortune, so estimable a man, of such a good family!' was the general cry. I strove to show them why this very proper match could not suit me, and sometimes made myself intelligible while speaking, but when I was gone, my words left no impression: former ideas returned; and these old acquaintance were the more welcome from having been a moment banished. One woman, much more mental than the rest, though she bowed to all their external forms, took me aside, when I had spoken with more than usual vivacity, and said a few words to me which I can never forget: 'You give yourself a great deal of trouble to no purpose, my dear: you cannot change the nature of things: a little northern town, unconnected with the world, uncivilized by arts or letters, must remain what it is. If you are doomed to live here, submit cheerfully; but leave it if you can: these are your only alternatives.' This was evidently so rational, that I felt a greater respect for her than for myself: with tastes like enough to my own, she knew how to resign herself beneath the lot which I found insupportable: with a love of poetry, she could judge better the stubbornness of man. I sought to know more of her, but in vain: her thoughts wandered beyond her home, but her life was devoted to it. I even believe that she dreaded lest her intercourse with me should revive her natural superiority; for what could she have done with it there?

CHAPTER III.

"I might have passed my life in this deplorable situation had I not lost my father. A sudden accident deprived me of my protector, my friend—the only being who had understood me in that peopled desert. My despair was uncontrollable. I found myself without one support. I had no relation save my step-mother, with whom I was no more intimate now than on the day I met her first. She soon renewed the suit of Mr. Maclinson; and though she had no authority to command my marrying him, received no one else at her house, and plainly told me that she should countenance no other match. Not that she much loved her kinsman; but she thought me presumptuous in refusing him, and made his case her own, rather for the defence of mediocrity than from family pride. Every day my state grew more odious. I felt myself attacked by that home-sick yearning which renders exile more terrible than death. Imagination is displeased by each surrounding object—the country, climate, language, and customs: life as a whole, life in detail, each moment, each circumstance, has its sting; for one's own land inspires a thousand pleasures that we guess not till they are lost.

—— "'la favella, i ecstumi,
L'aria, i tronchi, il terren, le mura, il sassi.'

"'Tongue, manners, air, trees, earth, walls, every stone.'

says Metastasio. It is, indeed, a grief no more to look upon the scenes of childhood: the charm of their memory renews our youth, yet sweetens the thought of death. The tomb and cradle there repose in the same shade; while the years spent beneath stranger skies seem like branches without roots. The generation which preceded yours remembers not your birth; it is not the generation of your sires: a host of mutual interests exist between you and your countrymen, which cannot be understood by foreigners, to whom you must explain everything, instead of finding the initiated ease that bids your thoughts flow forth secure the moment you meet a compatriot. I could not remember without emotion, such amiable expressions as 'Cara, Carissima.' I repeated them as I walked alone, in imitation of the kindly welcomes so contrasted with the greetings I now received. Every day I wandered into the fields. Of an evening, in Italy, I had been wont to hear rich music; but now the cawing of rooks alone resounded beneath the clouds. The fruits could scarcely ripen. I saw no vines: the languid flowers succeeded each other slowly; black pines covered the hills: an antique edifice, or even one fine picture, would have been a relief for which I should have sought thirty miles round in vain.[1] All was dull and sullen: the houses and their inhabitants served but to rob solitude of its poetic horrors. There was enough of commerce and of agriculture near for them to say: 'You ought to be content, you want for nothing.' Stupid, superficial judgment! The hearth of happiness or suffering is in our own breast's secret sanctuary. At twenty-one, I had a right to my mother's fortune, and whatever my father had left me. Then did I first dream of returning to Italy, and devoting my life to the arts. This project so inebriated me with joy, that, at first, I could anticipate no objections; yet, as my feverish hope subsided, I feared to take an irreparable resolve, and thought on what my acquaintance might say, to a plan which, from appearing perfectly easy, now seemed utterly impracticable; yet the image of a life in the midst of antiquities and arts was detailed before my mind's eye with so many charms, that I felt a fresh disgust at my tiresome existence. My talent, which I had feared to lose, had increased by my constant study of English literature. The depth of thought and feeling which characterizes your poets had strengthened my mind without impairing my fancy. I therefore possessed the advantages of a double education and twofold nationalities. I remembered the approbation paid by a few good critics in Florence to my first poetical essays, and prided in the added success I might obtain; in sooth, I had great hopes of myself. And is not such the first, the noblest illusion of youth? Methought that I should be mistress of the universe, the moment I escaped the withering breath of vulgar malice; but when I thought of flying in secret, I felt awed by that opinion which swayed me much more in England than in Italy; for though I could not like the town where I resided, I respected, as a whole, the country of which it was a part. If my step-mother had deigned to take me to London or Edinburgh, if she had thought of marrying me to a man of mind, I should never have renounced my name, even for the sake of returning to my own country. In fact, severe as she was, I never could have found the strength to alter my destiny, but for a multitude of circumstances which conspired to terminate my uncertainty. Thérésina is a Tuscan, and, though uneducated, she converses in those noble and melodious phrases that lend such grace to the discourse of our people. She was the only person with whom I spoke my own language; and this tie attached me to her. I often found her sad, and dared not ask why, not doubting that she, like myself, regretted our country. I knew that I should have been unable to restrain my own feelings, if excited by those of another. There are griefs that are ameliorated by communication; but imaginary ills augment if confined, above all, to a fellow-sufferer. A woe so sanctioned we no longer strive to combat. My poor Thérésina suddenly became seriously ill; and hearing her groan night and day, I determined to inquire the cause. Alas, she described exactly what I had felt myself. She had not reflected on the source of her pangs, and attached more importance to local circumstances and particular persons; but the sadness of the country, the insipidity of the town, the coldness of its natives, the constraint of their habits—she felt as I did, and cried incessantly: 'Oh, my native land! shall I never see you more?' yet added, that she would not leave me, in heart-breaking tones, unable to reconcile her love for me with her attachment to our fair skies and mother tongue. Nothing more affected my spirits than this reflex of my own feelings in a common mind, but one that had preserved the Italian taste and character in all its natural vivacity. I promised her that she should see her home again. 'With you?' she asked. I was silent: then she tore her hair, again declaring that she could never leave me, though looking ready to expire before my eyes as she said so. At last a promise that I would return with her escaped me; and though spoken but to soothe her, the joyous faith she gave it rendered it solemnly binding. From that day she cultivated the intimacy of some traders in the town, and punctually informed me when any vessel sailed from the neighboring port for Genoa or Leghorn. I heard her, but said nothing: she imitated my silence; but her eyes filled with tears. My health suffered daily from the climate and anxiety. My mind requires gayety. I have often told you that grief would kill me. I struggle against it too much: to live beneath sorrow one must yield to it. I frequently returned to the idea which had so occupied me since my father's death; but I loved Lucy dearly; she was now nine years old; for six had I watched over her like a second mother. I thought, too, that, if I departed privately, I should injure my own reputation, and that the name of my sister might thus be sullied. This apprehension, for the time, banished all my schemes. One evening, however, when I was more than usually depressed, I found myself alone with Lady Edgarmond; and, after an hour's silence, took so sudden a distaste towards her imperturbable frigidity, that I began the conversation by lamenting the life I led, rather to force her to speak, than to achieve any other result; but as I grew animated, I represented the possibility of my leaving England forever. My step-mother was not at all alarmed; but with a dry indifference, which I shall never forget, replied; 'You are of age, Miss Edgarmond; your fortune is your own; you are the mistress of your conduct; but if you take any step which would dishonor you in the eyes of the world, you owe it to your family to change your name, and be reported dead.' This heartless scorn inspired me with such indignation, that for a while a desire for vengeance, foreign to my nature, seized on my soul. That impulse left me; but the conviction that no one was interested in my welfare broke every link which, till then, had bound me to the house where I had seen my father. His wife certainly had never pleased me, save by her tenderness for Lucy. I believe that I must have conciliated her by the pains I had bestowed on her child; which, perhaps, rather excited her jealousy; for the more sacrifices she imposed on her other inclinations, the more passionately she indulged the sole affection she permitted herself. All that is quick and ardent in the human breast, mastered by her reason in her other connections, spoke from her countenance when anything concerned her daughter. At the height of my resentment, Thérésina came to me, in extreme emotion, with tidings that a ship had arrived from Leghorn, on board which were some traders whom she knew: 'the best people in the world,' she added, weeping; 'for they are all Italians, can speak nothing but Italian; in a week they sail again for Italy; and if madame is decided——'—'Return with them, my good Thérésina!' said I. 'No, madame; I would rather die here.' She left the room, and I mused over my duty to my step-mother. It was plain that she did not wish to have me with her; my influence over Lucy displeased her: she feared that the name I had gained there, as an extraordinary person, would, one day, interfere with the establishment of my sister: she had told me the secret of her heart, in desiring me to pass for dead; and this bitter advice, which had, at first, so shocked me, now appeared reasonable enough. 'Yes, doubtless I may pass for dead, where my existence is but a disturbed sleep,' said I. 'With nature, with the sun, the arts, I shall awaken, and the poor letters which compose my name, graven on an idle tomb, will fill my station here as well as I.' These mental leaps towards liberty gave me not yet sufficient power for a decided aim. There are moments when we trust the force of our own wishes; others, in which the habitual order of things assumes a right to overrule all the sentiments of the soul. I was in a state of indecision which might have lasted forever, as nothing obliged me to take an active part; but on the Sunday following my conversation with Lady Edgarmond, I heard, towards evening, beneath my window, some Italians singing: they belonged to the ship from Leghorn. Thérésina had brought them to give me this agreeable surprise. I cannot express what I felt: a torrent of tears deluged my cheeks. All my recollections were revived: nothing recalls the past like music: it does more than depict, it conjures it back, like some beloved shape, veiled in mysterious melancholy. The musicians sung the delicious verses composed by Monti in his exile:——

"'Bella Italia! amate sponde!
Pur vi torno, a riveder,
Trema in petto, e si confonde,
L'alma oppressa dal piacer!'

"'Beauteous Italia! beloved ever!
Shall I behold thy shore again?
Trembling—bewildered—my bonds I sever—
Pleasure oppresses my heart and brain.'"

In a kind of delirium, I felt for Italy all love can make one feel—desire, enthusiasm, regret. I was no longer mistress of myself; my whole soul was drawn towards my country: I yearned to see it, hear it, taste its breath; each throb of my heart was a call to my own smiling land. Were life offered to the dead, they would not dash aside the stone that kept them in the tomb with more impatience than I felt to rush from all the gloom around me, and once more take possession of my fancy, my genius, and of nature. Yet, at that moment, my sensations were too confused for me to frame one settled idea. My step-mother entered my room, and begged that I would order them to cease singing, as it was scandalous on the Sabbath. I insisted that they were to embark on the morrow, and that it was six years since I had enjoyed such a pleasure. She would not hear me; but said that it behooved us, above all things, to respect the customs of the place in which we lived; then, from the window, bade her servants send my poor countrymen away. They departed, singing me, as they went, an adieu that pierced me to the heart. The measure of my temptation was full. Thérésina, at all hazards, had, unknown to me, made every preparation for my flight. Lucy had been away a week with a relative of her mother. The ashes of my father did not repose in the country-house we inhabited: he had ordered his tomb to be erected on his Scotch estate.[2] Enough: I set forth without warning my step-mother, but left a letter, apprising her of my plans. I started in one of those moments at which we give ourselves up to destiny, when anything appears preferable to servitude and insipidity; when youth inconsiderately trusts the future, and sees it, in the heavens, like a bright star that promises a happy lot.

CHAPTER IV.

"More anxious thoughts attacked me as I lost sight of the English coast; but as I had not left there any strong attachment, I was soon consoled, on arriving at Leghorn, and reviewing the charms of Italy. I told no one my true name,[1] and took merely that of Corinne, which the history of a Grecian poetess, the friend of Pindar, had endeared to me.[2] My person was so changed that I was secure against recognition. I had lived so retired in Florence, that I had a right to anticipate my identity's remaining unknown in Rome. Lady Edgarmond wrote me word of her having spread the report that the physicians had prescribed a voyage to the south for my health, and that I had died on my passage. Her letter contained no comments. She remitted, with great exactness, my whole fortune, which was considerable; but wrote to me no more. Five years then elapsed ere I beheld you; during which I tasted much good fortune. My fame increased: the fine arts and literature afforded me even more delight in solitude than in my own success. I knew not, till I met you, the full power of sentiment: my imagination sometimes colored and discolored my illusions without giving me great uneasiness. I had not yet been seized by any affection capable of overruling me. Admiration, respect, and love had not enchained all the faculties of my soul; I conceived more charms than I ever found, and remained superior to my own impressions. Do not insist on me describing to you how two men, whose passion for me is but too generally known, successively occupied my life, before I knew you. I outrage my own conviction in now reminding myself that any one, save you, could ever have interested me: on this subject I feel equal grief and repentance. I shall only tell you what you have already heard from my friends. My free life so much pleased me, that, after long irresolutions and painful scenes, I twice broke the ties which the necessity of loving had made me contract, and could not resolve to render them irrevocable. A German noble would have married and taken me to his own country. An Italian prince offered me a most brilliant establishment in Rome. The first pleased and inspired me with the highest esteem; but, in time, I perceived that he had few mental resources. When we were alone together, it cost me great trouble to sustain a conversation, and conceal from him his own deficiencies. I dared not display myself at my best for fear of embarrassing him. I foresaw that his regard for me must necessarily decrease when I should cease to manage him; and it is difficult, in such a case, to keep up one's enthusiasm: a woman's feeling for a man any way inferior to herself is rather pity than love; and the calculations, the reflections required by such a state, wither the celestial nature of an involuntary sentiment. The Italian prince was all grace and fertility of mind: he participated in my tastes, and loved my way of life; but, on an important occasion, I remarked that he wanted energy, and that, in any difficulties, I should have to sustain and fortify him. There was an end of love—for women need support; and nothing chills them more than the necessity of affording it. Thus was I twice undeceived, not by faults or misfortunes, but by the spirit of observation, which detected what imagination had concealed. I believed myself destined never to love with the full power of my soul: sometimes this idea pained me; but more frequently I applauded my own freedom—fearing the capability of suffering that impassioned impulse which might threaten my happiness and my life. I always reassured myself in thinking that my judgment was not easily captivated, and that no man could answer my ideal of masculine mind and character. I hoped ever to escape the absolute power of love, by perceiving some defects in those who charmed me. I then knew not that there are faults which increase our passion by the inquietude they cause. Oswald! the melancholy indecision which discourages you—the severity of your opinions—troubles my repose, without decreasing my affection. I often think that it will never make me happy; but then it is always myself I judge, and not you. And now you know my history—my flight from England—my change of name—my heart's inconstancy: I have concealed nothing. Doubtless you think that fancy hath oft misled me; but, if society bound us not by chains from which men are free, what were there in my life which should prevent your loving me? Have I ever deceived? have I ever wronged any one? has my mind been seared by vulgar interests? Sincerity, good-will, and pride—does God ask more from an orphan alone in the world? Happy the women who, in their early youth, meet those they ought to love forever; but do I the less deserve you for having known you too late? Yet, I assure you, my Lord, and you may trust my frankness, could I but pass my life near you, methinks, despite the loss of the greatest happiness and glory I can imagine; I would not be your wife. Perhaps such marriage were to you a sacrifice: you may one day regret the fair Lucy, my sister to whom your father destined you. She is twelve years my younger; her name is stainless as the first flower of spring; we should be obliged, in England, to revive mine, which is now as that of the dead. Lucy, I know, has a pure and gentle spirit; if I may judge from her childhood, she may become capable of understanding—loving you. Oswald, you are free. When you desire it, your ring shall be restored to you. Perhaps you wish to hear, ere you decide, what I shall suffer if you leave me. I know not: sometimes impetuous impulses arise within me, that overrule my reason: should I be to blame, then, if they rendered life insupportable? It is equally true that I have a great faculty of happiness; it interests me in everything: I converse with pleasure, and revel in the minds of others—in the friendship they show me—in all the wonders of art and nature, which affectation hath not stricken dead. But would it be in my power to live when I no longer saw you? it is for you to judge, Oswald: you know me better than I know myself. I am not responsible for what I may experience: it is he who plants the dagger should guess whether the wound is mortal; but if it were so, I should forgive you. My happiness entirely depends on the affection you have paid me for the last six months. I defy all your delicacy to blind me, were it in the least degree impaired. Banish from your mind all idea of duty. In love, I acknowledged no promises no security: God alone can raise the flower which storms have blighted. A tone, a look, will be enough to tell me that your heart is not the same; and I shall detest all you may offer me instead of love—your love, that heavenly ray, my only glory! Be free, then, Nevil! now—ever—even if my husband; for, did you cease to love, my death would free you from bonds that else would be indissoluble. When you have read this, I would see you: my impatience will bring me to your side, and I shall read my fate at a glance; for grief is a rapid poison—and the heart, though weak, never mistakes the signal of irrevocable destiny.

"Adieu."

BOOK XV.

THE ADIEU TO ROME, AND JOURNEY TO VENICE.

CHAPTER I.

It was with deep emotion that Oswald read the narrative of Corinne: many and varied were the confused thoughts that agitated him. Sometimes he felt hurt by the picture she drew of an English country, and despairingly exclaimed: "Such a woman could never be happy in domestic life!" then he pitied what she had suffered there, and could not but admire the simple frankness of her recital. He was jealous of the affection she had felt ere she met him; and the more he sought to hide this from himself, the more it tortured him; but above all was he afflicted by his father's part in her history. His anguish was such that, not knowing what he did, he rushed forth beneath the noonday sun, when the streets of Naples were deserted, and their inhabitants all secluded in the shade. He hurried at random towards Portici: the beams which fell on his brow at once excited and bewildered his ideas. Corinne, meanwhile, having waited for some hours, could no longer resist her desire to see him. She entered his room; he was not there: his absence at such a crisis, fearfully alarmed her. She saw her papers on the table, and doubted not that, after reading them, he had left her forever. Each moment's attempt at patience added to her distress; she walked the chamber hastily, then stopped, in fear of losing the least sound that might announce his return; at last, unable to control her anxiety, she descended to inquire if any one had seen Lord Nevil go out, and which way he went. The master of the inn replied: "Towards Portici;" adding, "that his Lordship surely would not walk far at such a dangerous period of the day." This terror, blending with so many others, determined Corinne to follow him, though her head: was undefended from the sun. The large white pavements of Naples, formed of lava, redoubling the light and heat, scorched and dazzled her as she walked. She did not intend going to Portici, yet advanced towards it with increasing speed, meeting no one; for even the animals now shrunk from the ardors of the clime. Clouds of dust filled the air, with the slightest breeze, covering the fields, and concealing all appearance of verdant life. Every instant Corinne felt about to fall; not even a tree was near to support her. Reason reeled in this burning desert: a few steps more, and she might reach the royal palace, beneath whose porch she would find both shade and water; but her strength failed—she could no longer see her way—her head swam—a thousand flames, more vivid even than the blaze of day, danced before her eyes—an unrefreshing darkness suddenly succeeded them—a cruel thirst consumed her. One of the Lazzaroni, the only human creature expected to brave these fervid horrors, now came up; she prayed him to bring her a little water; but the man beholding so beautiful and elegant a woman alone, on foot, at such an hour, concluded that she must be insane, and ran from her in dismay. Fortunately, Oswald at this moment returned: the voice of Corinne reached his ear. He hastened towards her, as she was falling to the earth insensible, and bore her to the palace portico, where he called her back to life by the tenderest cares. As she recognized him, her senses still wandered, and she wildly exclaimed: "You promised never to depart without my consent! I may now appear unworthy of your love; but a promise, Oswald!"—"Corinne," he cried, "the thought of leaving you never entered my heart. I would only reflect on our fate; and wished to recover my spirits ere I saw you again."—"Well," she said, struggling to appear calm, "you have had time, during the long hours that might have cost my life; time enough—therefore speak! tell me what you have resolved!" Oswald, terrified at the accents, which betrayed her inmost feelings, knelt before her, answering, "Corinne, my heart is unchanged; what have I learned that should dispel your enchantment? Only hear me;" and as she trembled still more violently, he added, with much earnestness: "Listen fearlessly to one who cannot live, and know thou art unhappy."—"Ah," she sighed, "it is of my happiness you speak; your own, then, no longer depends on me? Yet I repulse not your pity; for, at this moment, I have need of it: but think you I will live for that alone?"—"No, no, we will both live for love. I will return."—"Return!" interrupted Corinne, "Ah, you do go, then? What has happened? how is all changed since yesterday! hapless wretch that I am!"—"Dearest love," returned Oswald, "be composed; and let me, if I can, explain my meaning; it is better than you suppose, much better; but it is necessary, nevertheless, that I should ascertain my father's reasons for opposing our union seven years since: he never mentioned the subject to me; but his most intimate surviving friend, in England, must know his motives. If, as I believe, they sprung from unimportant circumstances, I can pardon your desertion of your father's land and mine; to so noble a country love may attach you yet, and bid you prefer homefelt peace, with its gentle and natural virtues, even to the fame of genius. I will hope everything, do everything; if my father decides against thee, Corinne, I will never be the husband of another, though then I cannot be thine." A cold dew stood on his brow: the effort he had made to speak thus cost him so much agony, that for some time Corinne could think of nothing but the sad state in which she beheld him. At last she took his hand, crying, "So, you return to England without me!" Oswald was silent. "Cruel!" she continued: "you say nothing to contradict my fears; they are just, then, though even while saying so I cannot yet believe it."—"Thanks to your cares," answered Nevil, "I have regained the life so nearly lost: it belongs to my country during the war. If I can marry you, we part no more. I will restore you to your rank in England. If this too happy lot should be forbidden me, I shall return, with the peace, to Italy, stay with you long, and change your fate in nothing save in giving you one faithful friend the more."—"Not change my fate!" she repeated; "you, who have become my only interest in the world! to whom I owe the intoxicating draught which gives happiness or death? Yet tell me, at least, this parting, when must it be? How many days are left me?"—"Beloved!" he cried, pressing her to his heart, "I swear, that for three months I will not leave thee; not, perhaps, even then."—"Three months!" she burst forth; "am I to live so long? it is much, I did not hope so much. Come, I feel better. Three months?—what a futurity!" she added, with a mixture of joy and sadness, that profoundly affected Oswald, and both, in silence, entered the carriage which took them back to Naples.

CHAPTER II.

Castel Forte awaited them at the inn. A report had been circulated of their marriage: it greatly pained the Prince, yet he came to assure himself of the fact; to regain, as a friend, the society of his love, even if she were forever united to another. The state of dejection in which he beheld her, for the first time, occasioned him much uneasiness; but he dared not question her, as she seemed to avoid all conversation on this subject. There are situations in which we dread to confide in any one; a single word, that we might say or hear, would suffice to dissipate the illusion that supports our life. The self-deceptions of impassioned sentiment have the peculiarity of humoring the heart, as we humor a friend whom we fear to afflict by the truth; thus, unconsciously, trust we our own griefs to the protection of our own pity.

Next day, Corinne, who was too natural a person to attempt producing an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear gay; believing that the best method of retaining Oswald was to seem as attractive as formerly. She, therefore, introduced some interesting topic; but suddenly her abstraction returned, her eyes wandered; the woman who had possessed the greatest possible faculty of address now hesitated in her choice of words, and sometimes used expressions that bore not the slightest reference to what she intended saying: then she would laugh at herself, though through tears; and Oswald, overwhelmed by the wreck he had made, would have sought to be alone with her, but she carefully denied him an opportunity.

"What would you learn from me?" she said one day, when for an instant, he insisted on speaking with her. "I regret myself—that is all! I had some pride in my talents. I loved success, glory. The praises, even of indifferent persons, were objects of my ambition; now I care for nothing; and it is not happiness that weans me from these vain pleasures, but a vast discouragement. I accuse not you; it springs from myself; perhaps I may yet triumph over it. Many things pass in the depths of the soul that we can neither foresee nor direct; but I do you justice, Oswald: I see you suffer for me. I sympathize with you, too; why should not pity bestow her gifts on us? Alas! they might be offered to all who breathe, without proving very inapplicable."

Oswald, indeed, was not less wretched than Corinne. He loved her strongly; but her history had wounded his affections, his way of thinking. He seemed to perceive clearly that his father had prejudged everything for him; and that he could only wed Corinne in defiance of such warning; yet how resign her? His uncertainty was more painful than that which he hoped to terminate by a knowledge of her life. On her part, she had not wished that the tie of marriage should unite her to Oswald: so she could have been certain that he would never leave her, she would have wanted no more to render her content; but she knew him well enough to understand, that he could conceive no happiness save in domestic life; and would never abjure the design of marrying her, unless in ceasing to love. His departure for England appeared the signal for her death. She was aware how great an influence the manners and opinions of his country held over his mind. Vainly did he talk of passing his life with her in Italy; she doubted not that, once returned to his home, the thought of quitting it again would be odious to him. She felt that she owed her power to her charms; and what is that power in absence? What are the memories of imagination to a man encircled by all the realities of social order, the more imperious from being founded on pure and noble reason? Tormented by these reflections, Corinne strove to exert some power over her fondness. She tried to speak with Castel Forte on literature and the fine arts: but, if Oswald joined them, the dignity of his mien, the melancholy look which seemed to ask, "Why will you renounce me?" disconcerted all her attempts. Twenty times would she have told him, that his irresolution offended her, and that she was decided to leave him; but she saw him now lean his head upon his hand, as if bending breathless beneath his sorrows; now musing beside the sea, or raising his eyes to heaven, at the sound of music; and these simple changes, whose magic was known but to herself, suddenly overthrew her determination. A look, an accent, a certain grace of gesture, reveals to love the nearest secrets of the soul; and, perhaps, a countenance, so apparently cold as Nevil's, can never be read, save by those to whom it is dearest. Impartiality guesses nothing, judges only by what is displayed. Corinne, in solitude, essayed a test which had succeeded when she had but believed that she loved. She taxed her spirit of observation (which was capable of detecting the slightest foibles) to represent Oswald beneath less seducing colors; but there was nothing about him less than noble, simple, and affecting. How then defeat the spell of so perfectly natural a mind? It is only affectation which can at once awaken the heart, astonished at ever having loved. Besides, there existed between Oswald and Corinne a singular, all-powerful sympathy. Their tastes were not the same; their opinions rarely accorded; yet in the centre of each soul dwelt kindred mysteries, drawn from one source; a secret likeness, that attests the same nature, however differently modified by external circumstances. Corinne, therefore, found, to her dismay, that she had but increased her passion, by thus minutely considering Oswald anew, even in her very struggle against his image. She invited Castel Forte to return to Rome with them. Nevil knew she did this to avoid being alone with him: he felt it sadly, but could not oppose. He was no longer persuaded that what he might offer Corinne would constitute her content; and this thought rendered him timid. She, the while, had hoped that he would refuse the Prince's company. Their situation was no longer honest as of old; though as yet without actual dissimulation, restraint already troubled a regard, which for six months had daily conferred on them a bliss almost unqualified. Returning by Capua and Gaëta, scenes which she had so lately visited with such delight, Corinne felt that these beauties vainly called on her to reflect their smile. When such a sky fails to disperse the clouds of care, its laughing contrast but augments their gloom.

They arrived at Terracina on a deliciously refreshing eve. Corinne withdrew after supper. Oswald went forth, and his heart, like hers, led him towards the spot where they had rested on their way to Naples. He beheld her kneeling before the rock on which they sat; and, as he looked on the moon, saw that she was veiled by a cloud, as she had been two months since at that hour. Corinne, at his approach, rose, and pointing upwards, said: "Have I not reason to believe in omens? Is there not some compassion in that heaven? It warned me of the future; and to-night, you see, it mourns for me. Forget not, Oswald, to remark, if such a cloud passes not over the moon when I am dying."—"Corinne," he cried, "have I deserved that you should kill me? It were easily done: speak thus again, and you will see how easily—but for what crime? Your mode of thinking lifts you above the world's opinion: in your country it is not severe; and if it were, your genius could surmount it. Whatever happens, I will live near you; whence, then, this despair? If I cannot be your husband, without offence to the memory of one who reigns equally with yourself in my breast—do you not love me well enough to find some solace in the tender devotion of mine every instant? Have you not still my ring—that sacred pledge?"—"I will return it, Oswald."—"Never!"—"Ah, yes; when you desire it, the ring itself will tell me. An old legend says that the diamond, more true than man, dims when the giver has betrayed our trust."[1]—"Corinne," said Oswald, "dare you speak such treason? your mind is lost; it no longer knows me."—"Pardon! oh, pardon me! in love like mine, the heart, Oswald, is gifted suddenly with most miraculous instincts; and its own sufferings become oracles. What portends, then, the heavy palpitation of my heart? Ah, love, I should not fear it, if it were but my knell!" She fled, precipitately, dreading to remain longer with him. She could not dally with her grief, but sought to break from it; yet it returned but the more violently for her repulse. The next day, as they crossed the Pontine Marsh, Oswald's care of her was even more scrupulous than before; she received it with the sweetest thankfulness: but there was something in her look that said: "Why will you not let me die?"

CHAPTER III.

What a desert seems Rome, in going to it from Naples! Entering by the gate of St. John Lateran, you traverse but long, solitary streets; they please afresh after a little time: but, on just leaving a lively, dissipated population, it is melancholy to be thrown upon one's self, even were that self at ease. Besides this, Rome, towards the end of July, is a dangerous residence. The malaria renders many quarters uninhabitable; and the contagion often spreads through the whole city. This year, particularly, every face bore the impress of apprehension. Corinne was met at her own door by a monk, who asked leave to bless her house against infection: she consented; and the priest walked through the rooms, sprinkling holy water, and repeating Latin prayers. Lord Nevil smiled at this ceremony—Corinne's heart melted over it. "I find indefinable charms," she said, "in all that is religious, or even superstitious, while nothing hostile nor intolerant blends with it. Divine aid is so needful, when our thoughts stray from the common path, that the highest minds most require superhuman care."—"Doubtless such want exists, but can it thus be satisfied?"—"I never refuse a prayer associated with my own, from whomsoever it is offered me."—"You are right," said Nevil, giving his purse to the old friar, who departed with benedictions on them both. When the friends of Corinne heard of her return, they flocked to see her: if any wondered that she was not Oswald's wife, none, at least, asked the reason: the pleasure of regaining her diverted them from every other thought. Corinne endeavored to appear unchanged; but she could not succeed. She revisited the works of art that once afforded her such vivid pleasure; but sorrow was the base of her every feeling now. At the Villa Borghese, or the tomb of Cecilia Metella, she no longer enjoyed that reverie on the instability of human blessings, which lends them a still more touching character. A fixed, despondent pensiveness absorbed her. Nature, who ever speaks to the heart vaguely, can do nothing for it when oppressed by real calamities. Oswald and Corinne were worse than unhappy; for actual misery oft causes such emotions as relieve the laden breast; and from the storm may burst a flash pointing the onward way: but mutual restraint, and fruitless efforts to escape pursuing recollections, made them even discontented with one another. Indeed, how can we suffer thus, without accusing the being we love as the cause? True, a word, a look, suffices to efface our displeasure; but that look, that word, may not come when most expected, or most needful. Nothing in love can be premeditated; it is as a power divine, that thinks and feels within us, unswayed by our control.

A fever, more malignant than had been known in Rome for some years, now broke out suddenly. A young woman was attacked; her friends and family refused to fly, and perished with her. The next house experienced the same devastation. Every hour a holy fraternity, veiled in white, accompanied the dead to interment; themselves appearing like the ghosts of those they followed. The bodies, with their faces uncovered, are borne on a kind of litter. Over their feet is thrown a pall of gold or rose-colored satin; and children often unconsciously play with the cold hands of the corpse. This spectacle, at once terrific and familiar, is graced but by the monotonous murmur of a psalm, in which the accent of the human soul can scarce be recognized. One evening, when Oswald and Corinne were alone together, and he more depressed than usual by her altered manner, he heard, beneath the windows, these dreary sounds, announcing a funeral; he listened awhile in silence, and then said: "Perhaps to-morrow I may be seized by this same malady, against which there is no defence; you will then wish that you had said a few kind words to me on the day that may be my last. Corinne, death threatens us both closely. Are there not miseries enough in life, that we should thus mutually augment each other's?" Struck by the idea of his danger, she now entreated him to leave Rome instantly; he stubbornly refused: she then proposed their going to Venice; to this he cheerfully assented: it was for her alone that he had trembled. Their departure was fixed for the second day from this; but on that morning, Oswald, who had not seen Corinne the night before, received a note, informing him that indispensable business obliged her to visit Florence; but that she should rejoin him at Venice in a fortnight; she begged him to take Ancona in his way, and gave him a seemingly important commission to execute for her there. Her style was more calm and considerate than he had found it since they left Naples. He believed her implicitly, and prepared for his journey; but, wishing once more to behold the dwelling of Corinne ere he left Rome, he went thither, found it shut up, and rapped at the door. An old woman appeared, told him that all the other servants had gone with her mistress, and would not answer another word to his numerous questions. He hastened to Prince Castel Forte, who was as surprised as himself at Corinne's abrupt retirement. Nevil, all anxiety, imagined that her agent at Tivoli must have received some instructions as to her affairs. He mounted his horse with a promptitude unusual to him, and, in extreme agitation, rode to her country house; its doors were open; he entered, passed some of the rooms without meeting any one, till he reached that of Corinne: though darkness reigned there, he saw her on her bed, with Thérésina alone beside her; he uttered a cry of recognition: it recalled her to consciousness: she raised herself, saying eagerly: "Do not come near me! I forbid you! I die if you do!"

Oswald felt as if his beloved were accusing him of some crime which she had all at once suspected: believing himself hated—scorned—he fell on his knees, with despairing submission which suggested to Corinne the idea of profiting by this mistake, and she commanded him to leave her forever, as if he had in truth been guilty. Speechless with wonder, he would have obeyed, when Thérésina sobbed forth: "Oh, my Lord! will you, then, desert my dear lady? She has sent every one away, and would fain banish me too: for she has caught the infectious fever!" These words instantly explained the affecting stratagem of Corinne; and Oswald clasped her to his heart, with a transport of tenderness, such as he had never before experienced. In vain she repelled him; in vain she reproached Thérésina. Oswald bade the good creature withdraw, and lavished his tearful kisses on the face of his adored. "Now, now," he cried, "thou shalt not die without me: if the fatal poison be in thy veins, at least, thank Heaven, I breathe it in thine arms."—"Dear, cruel Oswald!" she sighed, "to what tortures you condemn me! O God! since he will not live without me, let not my better angel perish! no, save him, save him!" Here her strength was lost, and, for eight days, she remained in the greatest danger. In the midst of her delirium, she would cry: "Keep Oswald from me! let him not come here! never tell him where I am!" When her reason returned, she gazed on him, murmuring: "Oswald! in death as in life you are with me; we shall be reunited." When she perceived how pale he was, a deadly terror seized her, and she called to his aid the physicians, who had given her a strong proof of devotion in never having abandoned her. Oswald constantly held her burning hands in his, and finished the cup of which she had drunk; in fact, with such avidity did he share her perils, that she herself ceased at last to combat this passionate self-sacrifice. Leaning her head upon his arm, she resigned herself to his will. The beings who so love that they feel the impossibility of living without each other, may well attain the noble and tender intimacy which puts all things in common, even death itself.[1] Happily, Lord Nevil did not take the disease through which he so carefully nursed Corinne. She recovered; but another malady penetrated yet deeper into her breast. The generosity of her lover, alas! redoubled the attachment she had borne him.