Corinne; or, Italy

CHAPTER IV.

It was agreed that Neville and Corinne should visit Venice. They had relapsed into silence on their future prospects, but spoke of their affection more confidingly than ever: both avoided all topics that could disturb their present mutual peace. A day passed with him was to her such enjoyment! he seemed so to revel in her conversation; he followed her every impulse; studied her slightest wish, with so sustained an interest, that it appeared impossible he could bestow so much felicity without himself being happy. Corinne drew assurances of safety from the bliss she tasted. After some months of such habits we believe them inseparable from our existence. Her agitation was calmed again, and her natural heedlessness of the future returned. Yet, on the eve of quitting Rome, she became extremely melancholy: this time she both hoped and feared that it was forever. The night before her departure, unable to sleep, she heard a troop of Romans singing in the moonlight. She could not resist her desire to follow them, and once more wander through that beloved scene. She dressed; and bidding her servants keep the carriage within sight of her, put on a veil, to avoid recognition, and at some distance, pursued the musicians. They paused on the bridge of St. Angelo, in front of Adrian's tomb: in such a spot music seems to express the vanities and splendors of the world. One might fancy one beheld in the air the imperial shade wondering to find no other trace left of his power on earth except a tomb. The band continued their walk, singing as they went, to the silent night, when the happy ought to sleep: their pure and gentle melodies seem designed to solace wakeful suffering. Drawn onward by this resistless spell, Corinne, insensible to fatigue, seemed winging her way along. They also sang before Antoninus's pillar, and then at Trajan's column: they saluted the obelisk of St. John Lateran. The ideal language of music worthily mates the ideal expression of works like these: enthusiasm reigns alone, while vulgar interests slumber. At last the singers departed, and left Corinne near the Coliseum: she wished to enter its inclosure and bid adieu to ancient Rome.

Those who have seen this place but by day cannot judge of the impression it may make. The sun of Italy should shine on festivals; but the moon is the light for ruins. Sometimes, through the openings of the amphitheatre, which seems towering to the clouds, a portion of heaven's vault appears like a dark blue curtain. The plants that cling to the broken walls all wear the hues of night. The soul at once shudders and melts on finding itself alone with nature. One side of this edifice is much more fallen than the other; the two contemporaries make an unequal struggle against time. He fells the weakest; the other still resists, but soon must yield.

"Ye solemn scenes!" cried Corinne, "where, at this hour, no being breathes beside me—where but the echoes of my own voice answer me—how are the storms of passion calmed by nature, who thus peacefully permits so many generations to glide by! Has not the universe some better end than man? or are its marvels scattered here, merely to be reflected in his mind? Oswald! why do I love with such idolatry? why live but for the feelings of a day compared to the infinite hopes that unite us with divinity? My God! if it be true, as I believe, that we admire thee the more capable we are of reflection, make my own mind my refuge against my heart! The noble being whose gentle looks I can never forget is but a perishable mortal like myself. Among the stars there is eternal love, alone sufficing to a boundless heart." Corinne remained long in these ideas, and, at last, turned slowly towards her own abode; but, ere she re-entered it, she wished to await the dawn at St. Peter's, and from its dome take her last leave of all beneath. Her imagination represented this edifice as it must be, when, in its turn, a wreck—the theme of wonder for yet unborn ages. The columns, now erect, half bedded in earth; the porch dilapidated, with the Egyptian obelisk exulting over the decay of novelties, wrought for an earthly immortality. From the summit of St. Peter's Corinne beheld day rise over Rome, which, in its uncultivated Campagna, looks like the oasis of a Libyan desert. Devastation is around it; but the multitude of spires and cupolas, over which St. Peter's rises, give a strange beauty to its aspect. This city may boast one peculiar charm: we love it as an animated being: its very ruins are as friends, from whom we cannot part without farewell.

Corinne addressed the Pantheon, St. Angelo's, and all the sites that once renewed the pleasures of her fancy. "Adieu!" she said, "land of remembrances! scenes where life depends not on events, nor on society; where enthusiasm refreshes itself through the eyes, and links the soul to each external object. I leave you, to follow Oswald, not knowing to what fate he may consign me. I prefer him to the independence which here afforded me such happy days. I may return to more; but for a broken heart and blighted mind, ye arts and monuments so oft invoked, while I was exiled beneath his stormy sky, ye could do nothing to console!"

She wept; yet thought not, for an instant, of letting Oswald depart without her. Resolutions springing from the heart we often justly blame, yet hesitate not to adopt. When passion masters a superior mind, it separates our judgment from our conduct, and need not cloud the one in order to overrule the other.

Corinne's black curls and veil floating on the breeze gave her so picturesque an air, that, as she left the church, the common people recognised and followed her to her carriage with the warmest testimonials of respect. She sighed again, at parting from a race so ardent and so graceful in their expressions of esteem. Nor was this all. She had to endure the regrets of her friends They devised fêtes in order to delay her departure: their poetical tributes strove in a thousand ways to convince her that she ought to stay; and finally they accompanied her on horseback for twenty miles. She was extremely affected. Oswald cast down his eyes in confusion, reproaching himself for tearing her from so much delight, though he knew that an offer of remaining there would be more barbarous still. He appeared selfish in removing Corinne from Rome; yet he was not so; for the fear of afflicting her, by setting forth alone, had more weight with him than even the hope of retaining her presence. He knew not what he was about to do—saw nothing beyond Venice. He had written to inquire how soon his regiment would be actively employed in the war, and awaited a reply. Sometimes he thought of taking Corinne with him to England; yet instantly remembered that he should forever ruin her reputation by so doing, unless she were his wife; then he wished to soften the pangs of separation by a private marriage; but a moment afterwards gave up that plan also. "We can keep no secrets from the dead," he cried: "and what should I gain by making a mystery of a union prohibited by nothing but my worship of a tomb?" His mind, so weak in all that concerned his affections, was sadly agitated by contending sentiments. Corinne resigned herself to him, like a victim, exulting, amid her sorrows, in the sacrifices she made; while Oswald, responsible for the welfare of another, bound himself to her daily by new ties, without the power of yielding to them; and unhappy in his love as in his conscience, felt the presence of both but in their combats with each other.

When the friends of Corinne took leave, they commended her earnestly to his care; congratulated him on the love of so eminent a woman; their every word sounding like mockery and upbraiding. She felt this, and hastily concluded the trying scene; and when, after turning from time to time to salute her, they were at last lost to her sight, she only said to her lover: "Oswald! I have now no one but you in the world!" How did he long to swear he would be hers! But frequent disappointments teach us to mistrust our own inclinations, and shrink even from the vows our hearts may prompt. Corinne read his thoughts, and delicately strove to fix his attention on the country through which they travelled.

CHAPTER V.

It was the beginning of September, and the weather super till they neared the Apennines, where they felt the approach of winter. A soft air is seldom united with the pleasure of looking on picturesque mountains. One evening, a terrible hurricane arose: the thickest darkness closed around them; and the horses, so wild there that they are even harnessed by stratagem, set off with inconceivable rapidity. Our lovers felt much excited by being thus hurried on together. "Ah!" cried Oswald, "if they could bear us from all I know on earth—if they could climb these hills, and dash into another life, where we should regain my father, who would receive and bless us, would you not go with me, beloved?" He pressed her vehemently to his bosom. Corinne, enamored as himself, replied: "Dispose of me as you will; chain me like a slave to your fate: had not the slaves of other days talents that soothed their masters? Such would I be to thee. But, Oswald, yet respect her who thus trusts thee: condemned by all the world, she must not blush to meet thine eye."—"No," he exclaimed, "I will lose all, or all obtain. I ought, I must either live thy husband, or die in stifling the transports of my passion: but I will hope to be thine before the world, and glory in thy tenderness. Yet tell me, I conjure thee, have I not sunk in thine esteem by all these struggles? Canst thou believe thyself less dear than ever?" His accents were so sincere, that, for awhile, they gave her back her confidence, and the purest, sweetest rapture animated them both.

Meanwhile the horses stopped. Oswald alighted first. The cold sharp wind almost made him fancy himself landing in England: this freezing air was not like that of Italy, which bids young breasts forget all things save love. Oswald sank back into his gloom. Corinne, who knew the unsettled nature of his fancy, but too well guessed the cause. On the morrow they arrived at our Lady of Loretto, which stands upon an eminence, from whence is seen the Adriatic. While Oswald gave some orders for their journey, Corinne entered the church, where the image of the Virgin is inclosed in the choir of a small chapel, adorned with bas-reliefs. The marble pavement that surrounds the sanctuary is worn by pilgrim knees. Corinne, moved by these marks of prayer, knelt on the stones so often pressed by the unfortunate, and addressed the type of heavenly truth and sensibility. Oswald here found her bathed in tears. He did not understand how a woman of her mind could bow to the practices of the ignorant. She guessed this by his looks, and said: "Dear Oswald, are there not many moments when we dare not raise our hopes to the Supreme Being, or breathe to him the sorrows of our hearts? Is it not pleasing, then, to behold a woman as intercessor for our human weakness? She suffered on this earth, for she lived on it; to her I blush not to pray for you, when a petition to God himself would overawe me."—"I cannot always directly supplicate my Maker," replied Oswald. "I, too, have my intercessor: the guardian angel of children is their father: and since mine has been in heaven, I have oft received an unexpected solace, aid, and composure, which I can but attribute to the miraculous protection whence I still hope to escape from my perplexities."—"I comprehend you," said Corinne, "and believe there is no one who has not some mysterious idea of his own destiny—one event which he has always dreaded, and which, though improbable, is sure to happen. The punishment of some fault, though it be impossible to trace the connection our misfortunes have with it, often strikes the imagination. From my childhood I trembled at the idea of living in England. Well; my inability to do so may be my worst regret; and on that point I feel there is something unconquerable in my fate, against which I struggle in vain. Every one conceives his life interiorly a contrast to what it seems we have a confused sense of some supernatural power, disguised in the form of external circumstance, while itself alone is the source of all our actions. Dear friend, minds capable of reasoning forever plunge into their own abyss, but always fail to fathom it."

Oswald, as he heard her speak thus, wondered to find that, while she was capable of such glowing sentiments, her judgment still could hover over them, like their presiding genius. "No," he frequently said to himself, "no other society on earth can satisfy the man who has possessed such a companion as this."

They entered Ancona at night, as he wished not to be recognized: in spite of his precautions, however, he was so; and the next morning all the inhabitants crowded about the house in which he stayed, awaking Corinne by shouts of "Long live Lord Nevil, our benefactor!" She started, rose hastily, and mingled with the crowd, to hear their praises of the man she loved. Oswald, informed that the people were impatiently calling for him, was at last obliged to appear. He believed Corinne still slept: what was his astonishment at finding her already known and cherished by the grateful multitude, who entreated her to be their interpretress! Corinne's imagination—by turns her charm and her defect—delighted in extraordinary adventures. She thanked Lord Nevil, in the name of the people, with a grace so noble that the natives were in ectasies. Speaking for them, she said: "You preserved us—we owe you our lives!" But when she offered him the oak and laurel crown they had entwined, an indefinite timidity beset her: the enthusiastic populace prostrated themselves before him, and Corinne involuntarily bent her knee in tendering him the garland. Oswald was so overwhelmed at the sight, that he could no longer support this scene, nor the public homage of his beloved; but drew her away with him. She wept, and thanked the good inhabitants of Ancona, who followed them with blessings, as Oswald, hiding himself in his carriage, murmured: "Corinne at my feet! Corinne, in whose path I ought to kneel! Have I deserved this? Do you suspect me of such unworthy pride?"—"No, no," she said; "but I was suddenly seized with the respect a woman always feels for him she loves. To us, indeed, is external deference most directed; but in truth, in nature, it is the woman who reveres the being capable of defending her."

"Yes, I will be thy defender, to the last hour of my life!" he answered. "Heaven be my witness, such a genius shall not in vain seek a refuge in the harbor of my love!"—"Alas!" she sighed, "that love is all I need; and what promise can secure it to me? No matter. I feel that you love me now better than ever: let us not trouble this return of affection."—"Return!" interrupted Oswald.—"I cannot retract the expression; but let us not seek to explain it;" and she made a gentle sign for Nevil to be silent.

CHAPTER VI.

For two days they proceeded on the shore of the Adriatic; but this sea, on the Romagnan side, has not the effect of the ocean, nor even of the Mediterranean. The high road winds close to its waves, and grass grows on its banks: it is not thus that we would represent the mighty realm of tempests. At Rimini and Cesena, you quit the classic scenes of history: their latest remembrancer is the Rubicon, which Cæsar passed to become the lord of Rome. Not far from hence is the republic of St. Marino, the last weak vestige of liberty, besides the spot on which was resolved the destruction of the world's chief republic. By degrees, you now advance towards a country very opposite in aspect to the Papal State. Bologna, Lombardy, the environs of Ferrara and Rovigo, are remarkable for beauty and cultivation—how unlike the poetic barrenness and decay that announce an approach to Rome, and tell of the terrible events that have occurred there!

You then quit what Sabran calls "black pines, the summer's mourning, but the winter's bravery," and the conical cypresses that remind one of obelisks, mountains, and the sea. Nature, like the traveller, now parts from the southern rays. At first, the oranges are found no longer in the open air—they are succeeded by olives, whose pale and tender foliage might suit the bowers of the Elysian fields. Further on, even the olive disappears.

On entering Bologna's smiling plain, the vines garland the elms together, and the whole land is decked as for a festival. Corinne was sensible of the contrast between her present state of mind and the resplendent scene she now beheld.—"Ah, Oswald!" she sighed, "ought nature to spread such images of happiness before two friends perhaps about to lose each other?"—"No, Corinne—never! each day I feel less able to resign thee: that untiring gentleness unites the charm of habit with the love I bear thee. One lives as contentedly with you as if you were not the finest genius in the world, or, rather, because you are so; for real superiority confers a perfect goodness, that makes one's peace with one's self and all the world. What angry thoughts can live in such a presence?" They arrived at Ferrara, one of the saddest towns in Italy, vast and deserted. The few inhabitants found there, at distant intervals, loiter on slowly, as if secure of time for all they have to do. It is hard to conceive this the scene of that gay court sung both by Tasso and Ariosto; yet still are shown their manuscripts, with that also of the Pastor Fido. Ariosto knew how to live at ease here, amid courtiers; but the house is yet to be seen wherein they dared confine Tasso as a maniac. It is sad to read the various letters which he wrote, asking the death it was so long ere he obtained. Tasso was so peculiarly organised, that his talent became its owner's formidable foe. His genius dissected his own heart. He could not so have read the secrets of the soul if he had felt less sorrow. The man who has not suffered, says a prophet, what does he know? In some respects, Corinne resembled him. She was more cheerful and more versatile, but her imagination required extreme government: far from assuaging any grief, it lent each pang fresh might. Nevil deceived himself if he believed her brilliant faculties could give her means of happiness apart from her affections. When genius is united with true feeling, our talents multiply our woes. We analyze, we make discoveries, and, the heart's urn of tears being exhaustless, the more we think the more we feel it flow.

CHAPTER VII.

They embarked for Venice on the Brenta. At each side they beheld its palaces, grand but dilapidated, like all Italian magnificence. They are too wildly ornamented to remind us of the antique: Venetian architecture betrays a commerce with the East: there is a blendure of the Gothic and Moresco that takes the eye, though it offends the taste. The poplar, regular almost as architecture itself, borders the canals. The sky's bright blue sets off the splendid verdure of the country, which owes its green to the abundant waters. Nature seems to wear these two colors in mere coquetry; and the vague beauty of the South is found no more. Venice astonishes more than it pleases at first sight: it looks a city under water: and one can scarce admire the ambition which disputed this space with the sea. The amphitheatre of Naples is built as if to welcome it; but on the flats of Venice, steeples appear, like masts, immovable in the midst of waves. In entering the city, one takes leave of vegetation; one sees not even a fly there: all animals are banished; man alone remains to battle with the waves. In a city whose streets are all canals, the silence is profound—the dash of oars its only interruption. You cannot fancy yourself in the country, for you see no trees; nor in a town, for you hear no bustle; or even on board ship, for you make no way; but in a place which storms would convert into a prison—for there are times when you cannot leave the city, nor even your own house.

Many men in Venice never went from one quarter to another—never beheld St. Mark's—a horse or a tree were actual miracles to them. The black gondolas glide along like biers or cradles, the last and the first beds of human kind. At night, their dark color renders them invisible, and they are only traced by the reflection of the lights they carry—one might call them phantoms, guided by faint stars. In this abode all is mysterious—the government, the habits, love itself. Doubtless the heart and reason find much food when they can penetrate this secrecy, but strangers always feel the first impression singularly sad.

Corinne, who was a believer in presentiments, and now made presages of everything, said to Nevil: "Is not the melancholy that I feel on entering this place a proof that some great misfortune will befall me here?" As she said this, she heard three reports of cannon, from one of the Isles of the Lagune—she started, and inquired the cause of a gondolier—"It is a woman taking the veil," he said, "at one of those convents in the midst of the sea. The custom here is, that the moment such vow is uttered, the female throws the flowers she wore during the ceremony behind her, as a sign of her resigning the world, and the firing you have just heard announces this event." Corinne shuddered. Oswald felt her hand grow cold in his, and saw a deathlike pallor overspread her face.—"My life!" he cried, "why give this importance to so simple a chance?"—"It is not simple," she replied. "I, too, have thrown the flowers of youth behind me."—"How! when I love thee more than ever? when my whole soul is thine?"—"The thunders of war," she continued, "elsewhere devoted to victory or death, here celebrate the obscure sacrifice of a maiden—an innocent employment for the arms that shake the world with terror: a solemn message from a resigned woman to those of her sisters who still contend with fate."

CHAPTER VIII.

The power of the Venetian government, during its latter years, has almost entirely consisted in the empire of habit and association of ideas. It once was formidably daring,—it has become lenient and timorous: hate of its past potency is easily revived, and easily subdued, by the thoughts that its might is over. The aristocracy woo the favour of the people, and yet by a kind of despotism, since they rather amuse than enlighten them; an agreeable state enough, while the common herd are afforded no pleasures that can brutify their minds, while the government watches over its subjects like a sultan over his harem, forbidding them to meddle with politics, or presume to form any judgment of existing authorities, but allowing them sufficient diversion, and not a little glory. The spoils of Constantinople enrich the churches; the standards of Cyprus and Candia float over the Piazza; the Corinthian horses delight the eye; and the winged lion of St. Mark's appears the type of fame. The situation of the city rendering agriculture and the chase impossible, nothing is left for the Venetians but dissipation. Their dialect is soft and light as a zephyr. One can hardly conceive how the people who resisted the league of Cambray should speak so flexible a tongue: it is charming while expressive of graceful pleasantry, but suits not graver themes; verses on death, for instance, breathed in these delicate and almost infantine accents, sound more like the descriptions of poetic fable. The Venetians are the most intelligent men in Italy; they think more deeply, though with less ardent fancies than their southern countrymen; yet, for the most part, the women, though very agreeable, have acquired a sentimentality of language, which, without restraining their morals, merely lends their gallantry an air of affectation. There is more vanity, as there is more society, here, than in the rest of Italy. Where applause is quick and frequent, conceit calculates all debts instantaneously; knows what success is owed, and claims its due, without giving a minute's credit. Its bills must be paid at sight. Still, much originality may be found in Venice. Ladies of the highest rank receive visits in the cafés, and this strange confusion prevents their salons becoming the arenas of serious self-love. There yet remain here some ancient usages that evince a respect for their forefathers, and a certain youth of heart which tires not of the past, nor shrinks from melting recollections. The sight of the city itself is always sufficient to awaken a host of memories. The Piazza is crowded by blue tents, beneath which rest Turks, Greeks and Armenians, who sometimes also loll carelessly in open boats, with stands of flowers at their feet. St. Mark's, too, looks rather like a mosque than a Christian temple; and its vicinity gives a true idea of the oriental indolence with which life is spent here, in drinking sherbet, and smoking perfumed pipes.

Men and women of quality never leave their houses, except in black mantles; while the gondolas are often winged along by rowers clad in white, with rose-colored sashes, as if holiday array were abandoned to the vulgar, while the nobility kept up a vow of perpetual mourning. In most European towns, authors are obliged carefully to avoid depicting the daily routine; for our customs, even in luxury, are rarely poetic; but in Venice nothing appears coarse; the canals, the boats, make pictures of the commonest events in life.

On the quay of the galleys you constantly encounter puppet shows, mountebanks, and story-tellers; the last are worthy of remark. It is usually some episode from Tasso or Ariosto which they relate in prose, to the great admiration of their hearers, who sit round the speaker half clad, and motionless with curiosity; from time to time they purchase glasses of water, as wine is bought elsewhere, and this refreshment is all they take for hours, so strongly are their minds interested. The narrator uses the most animating gestures; his voice is raised; he irritates himself; he grows pathetic; and yet one sees, all the while, that at heart he is perfectly unmoved. One might say to him, as did Sappho to the Circean nymph, who, in perfect sobriety, was assuming fury: "Bacchante—who art not drunk—what wouldst thou with me?" Yet the lively pantomime of the south does not appear quite artificial: it is a singular habit handed down from the Romans, and springing from quickness of disposition. A people so enslaved by pleasure may soon be alarmed by the dream of power in which the Venetian government is veiled. Never are soldiers seen there. If even a drummer appears in their comedies they are all astonishment; yet a state inquisitor needs but to show himself to restore order among thirty thousand people, assembled for a public fête. It were well if this influence was derived from a respect for the laws; but it is fortified by terror of the secret means which may still be used to preserve the peace. The prisons are in the very palace of the Doge, above and below his apartments. The Lion's Mouth, into which all denunciations are thrown, is also here; the hall of trial is hung with black, and makes judgment appear anticipating condemnation.

The Bridge of Sighs leads from the palace to the state prison. In passing the canal, how oft were heard the cries of "Justice! Mercy!" in voices that could be no longer recognized. When a state criminal was sentenced, a bark removed him in the night, by a little gate that opens on the water: he was taken some distance from the city, to a part of the Lagune where fishing is prohibited, and there drowned: thus secrecy is perpetuated, even after death, not leaving the unhappy wretch a hope that his remains may inform those who loved him that he suffered, and is no more. When Lord Nevil and Corinne visited Venice, these executions had not taken place for nearly a century: but sufficient mystery still existed: and, though Oswald was the last man to interfere with the politics of foreign lands, he felt oppressed by this arbitrary power, from which there was no appeal, that seemed to hang over every head in Venice.

CHAPTER IX.

"You must not," said Corinne, "give way merely to the gloomy impressions which these silent proceedings have created; you ought also to observe the great qualities of this senate, which makes Venice a republic for nobles, and formerly inspired that aristocratic energy, the result of freedom, even though concentrated in the few. You will find them severe on one another, at least establishing, in their own breasts, the rights and virtues that should belong to all. You will see them as paternal towards their subjects as they can be, while merely considering that class of men with reference to physical prosperity. You will detect a great pride in the country which is their property, and an art of endearing it even to the people, whom they allow so few actual possessions there."

Corinne and Oswald visited the hall where the great council was then assembled. It is hung with portraits of the doges; on the space which would have been occupied by that of Faliero, who was beheaded as a traitor, is painted a black curtain, whereon is written the date and manner of his death. The regal magnificence of the other pictures adds to the effect of this ghastly pall. There is also a representation of the Last Judgment, another of the powerful emperor, Frederic Barbarossa, humbling himself to the Venetian senate. It was a fine idea, thus to unite all that can exalt pride upon earth, and bend it before Heaven.

They proceeded to the arsenal: before its gates are two Grecian lions, brought from Athens, to become the guardians of Venetian power. Motionless guardians, that defend but what they respect. This repository is full of marine trophies. The famous ceremony of the doge's marriage with the Adriatic, in fact, all the institutions, here attest their gratitude to the sea: in this respect they resemble the English, and Nevil strongly felt the similarity. Corinne now led him to the tower called the Steeple of St. Mark's, though some paces from the church. Thence is seen the whole city of the waves, and the huge embankment which defends it from inundation. The coasts of Istria and Dalmatia are in the distance. "Behind the clouds, on this side, lies Greece," said Corinne: "is not that thought enough to stir the heart? There, still, are men of lively, ardent characters, victims to fate; yet destined, perhaps, some day, to resuscitate the ashes of their sires. It is always something for a land to have been great; its natives blush at least beneath degradation; while, in a country never consecrated to fame, the inhabitants do not even suspect that there can be a nobler doom than the obscure servility bequeathed to them by their fathers. Dalmatia, which was of yore occupied by so warlike a race, still preserves something of the savage. Its natives are so little aware of the changes wrought by fifteen centuries, that they still deem the Romans 'all-powerful;' yet they betray more modern knowledge, by calling the English 'the heroes of the sea,' because you have so often landed in their ports; but they know nothing about the rest of the world. I love all realms where, in the manners, customs, language, something original is left. Civilized life is so monotonous; you know its secrets in so short a time; I have already lived long enough for that."—"Living with you," said Nevil, "can we ever behold the end of new thoughts and sensations?"—"God grant that such may prove exhaustless!" she replied, continuing: "Let us give one moment more to Dalmatia: when we descend from this height we shall still see the uncertain lines which mark that land, as indistinctly as a tender recollection in the memory of man. There are improvisatores among the Dalmatians as among the savages; they were found, too, with the Grecians, and almost always exist where there is much imagination, and little vanity. Natural talent turns rather to epigram, in countries where a fear of ridicule makes every man anxious to be the first who secures that weapon; but people thrown much with Nature feel a reverence for her that greatly nurtures fancy. 'Caverns are sacred,' say the Dalmatians; doubtless, thus expressing an indefinite terror of the old earth's secrets. Their poetry, Southerns though they be, resembles Ossian's; but there are only two ways of feeling the charms of nature. Men either animate and deify them, as did the ancients, beneath a thousand brilliant shapes, or, like the Scottish bards, yield to the melancholy fear inspired by the unknown. Since I met you, Oswald, this last manner has best pleased me. Formerly, I had vivacious hope enough to prefer a fearless enjoyment of smiling imagery."—"It is I, then," said Nevil, "who have withered the fair ideal, to which I owed the richest pleasures of my life."—"No, you are not in fault, but my own passion. Talent requires internal freedom, such as true love destroys."—"Ah! if you mean that your genius may lose its voice, and your heart but speak for me——" He could not proceed; the words promised more to his mind than he dared utter. Corinne guessed this, and would not answer, lest she should dissipate their present hopes. She felt herself beloved, and, used to live where men lose all for love, she was easily persuaded that Nevil could not leave her. At once ardent and indolent, she deemed a danger past which was no longer mentioned. She lived as many others do; who have been long menaced by the same misfortune, and think it will never happen, merely because it has not done so yet.

The air of Venice, and the life led there, is singularly calculated for lulling the mind into security: the very boats, peacefully rocking to and fro, induce a languid reverie; now and then a gondolier on the Rialto sings a stanza from Tasso; one of his fellows answers him, by the next verse, from the extremity of the canal. The very antique music they employ is like church psalmody, and monotonous enough when near; but, on the evening breeze, it floats over the waters like the last beams of the sun; and, aided by the sentiment it expresses, in such a scene, it cannot be heard without a gentle pensiveness. Oswald and Corinne remained on the canals, side by side, for hours; often without a word; holding each other's hands, and yielding to the formless dreams inspired by love and nature.

BOOK XVI.

PARTING AND ABSENCE.

CHAPTER I.

As soon as Corinne's arrival was known in Venice, it excited the greatest curiosity. When she went to a café in the piazza of St. Mark, its galleries were crowded, for a moment's glimpse at her; and the best society sought her with eager haste. She had once loved to produce this effect wherever she appeared, and naturally confessed that admiration had many charms for her. Genius inspires this thirst for fame: there is no blessing undesired by those to whom Heaven gave the means of winning it. Yet in her present situation she dreaded everything in opposition with the domestic habits so dear to Nevil. Corinne was blind to her own welfare, in attaching herself to a man likely rather to repress than to excite her talents; but it is easy to conceive why a woman, occupied by literature and the arts, should love the tastes that differed from her own. One is so often weary of one's self, that a resemblance of that self would never tempt affection, which requires a harmony of sentiment, but a contrast of character; many sympathies, but not unvaried congeniality. Nevil was supremely blessed with this double charm. His gentle ease and gracious manner could never sate, because his liability to clouds and storms kept up a constant interest. Although the depth and extent of his acquirements fitted him for any life, his political opinions and military bias inclined him rather to a career of arms than one of letters—the thought that action might be more poetical than even verse itself. He was superior to the success of his own mind, and spoke of it with much indifference. Corinne strove to please him by imitating this carelessness of literary glory; in order to grow more like the retiring females from whom English womanhood offers the best model. Yet the homage she received at Venice gave Oswald none but agreeable sensations. There was so much cordial good-breeding in the reception she met—the Venetians expressed the pleasure her conversation afforded them with such vivacity, that Oswald felt proud of being dear to one so universally admired. He was no longer jealous of her celebrity, certain that she prized him far above it; and his own love increased by every tribute she elicited. He forgot England, and revelled in the Italian heedlessness of days to come. Corinne perceived this change; and her imprudent heart welcomed it, as if to last forever.

Italian is the only tongue whose dialects are almost languages of themselves. In that of each state books might be written distinct from the standard Italian; though only the Neapolitan, Sicilian, and Venetian dialects have yet the honor of being acknowledged; and that of Venice as the most original, most graceful of all. Corinne pronounced it charmingly; and the manner in which she sung some lively barcaroles proved that she could act comedy as well as tragedy. She was pressed to take a part in an opera which some of her new friends intended playing the next week. Since she had loved Oswald, she concealed this talent from him, not feeling sufficient peace of mind for its exercise, or, at other times, fearing that any outbreak of high spirits might be followed by misfortune; but now, with unwonted confidence, she consented, as he, too, joined in the request; and it was agreed that she should perform in a piece, like most of Gozzi's, composed of the most diverting fairy extravagances.[1] Truffaldin and Pantaloon, in these burlesques, often jostle the greatest monarchs of the earth. The marvellous furnishes them with jests, which, from their very order, cannot approach to low vulgarity. The Child of the Air, or Semiramis in her Youth, is a coquette, endowed by the celestials and infernals to subjugate the world; bred in a desert, like a savage, cunning as a sorceress, and imperious as a queen, she unites natural wildness with premeditated grace, and a warrior's courage with the frivolity of a woman. The character demands a fund of fanciful drollery, which but the inspiration of the moment can bring to light.

CHAPTER II.

Fate sometimes has its own strange, cruel sport, repulsing our presuming familiarity. Oft, when we yield to hope, calculate on success, and trifle with our destiny, the sable thread is blending with its tissue, and the weird sisters dash down the airy fabrics we have reared.

It was now November; yet Corinne arose enchanted with her prospects. For the first act she chose a very picturesque costume: her hair, though dishevelled, was arranged with an evident design of pleasing; her light, fantastic garb gave her noble form a most mischievously attractive air. She reached the palace where she was to play. Every one but Oswald had arrived. She deferred the performance as long as possible, and began to be uneasy at his absence; when she came on the stage, however, she perceived him, though he sat in a remote part of the hall, and the pain of having waited redoubled her joy. She was inspired by gayety as she had been at the Capitol by enthusiasm. This drama blends song with speech, and even gives opportunities for extempore dialogue, of which Corinne availed herself to render the scene more animated. She sung the buffa airs with peculiar elegance. Her gestures were at once comic and dignified. She extorted laughter, without ceasing to be imposing. Her talents, like her part, queened it over actors and spectators, pleasantly bantering both parties. Ah! who would not have wept over such a sight, could they have known that this bright armor but drew down the lightning, that this triumphant mirth would soon give place to bitter desolation? The applause was so continual, so judicious, that the rapture of the audience infected Corinne with that kind of delirium which pours a lethe over the past, and bids the future seem unclouded. Oswald had seen her represent the deepest woe, at a time when he still hoped to make her happy; he now beheld her breathing stainless joy, just as he had received tidings that might prove fatal to them both. Oft did he wish to take her from this scene of daring happiness, yet felt a sad pleasure in once more beholding that lovely countenance bedecked in smiles. At the conclusion, she appeared arrayed as an Amazonian queen, commanding men, almost the elements, by that reliance on her charms which beauty may preserve, unless she loves; then, then, no gift of nature or of fortune can reassure her spirit; but this crowned flirt, this fairy queen, miraculously blending rage with wit, carelessness with ambition, and conceit with despotism, seemed to rule over fate as over hearts; and when she ascended her throne she exacted the submission of her subjects with a smile, arch as it was arrogant. This was, perhaps, the moment of her life, from which both grief and fear seemed furthest banished; when suddenly she saw her lover bow his face on his hands to hide his tears. She trembled, and the curtain had not quite fallen, when, leaving her already hated throne, she rushed into the next apartment. Thither he followed her; and when she marked his paleness, she was seized with such alarm that she was forced to lean against the wall for support. "Oswald," she said, "my God! what has happened?"—"I must start for England to-night," he said, forgetting that he ought not thus to have exposed her feelings.—"No, no!" she cried, clinging to him distractedly; "you cannot plunge me into such despair. How have I merited it? or—or—you mean that you will take me with you?"—"Let us leave this cruel crowd," he said: "come with me, Corinne." She followed him, not understanding aught addressed to her, answering at random; her gait and look so changed, that every one believed her struck with sudden illness.

CHAPTER III.

When they were in the gondola, she raved: "What you have made me feel is worse than death: be generous: throw me into these waves, that I may lose the sense which maddens me. Oswald, be brave: I have seen you do things that required more courage."—"Hold, hold!" he cried, "if you would not drive me to suicide. Hear me, when we have reached your house, and then pronounce our fate. In the name of Heaven be calm!" There was such misery in his accents that she was silent; but trembled so violently, that she could hardly walk up the stairs to her apartment. There she tore off her ornaments in dismay; and, as Lord Nevil saw her in this state, a few moments since so brilliant, he sank upon a seat in tears.—"Am I a barbarian?" he cried. "Corinne! Just Heaven! Corinne! do you not think me so?"—"No," she said, "no, I cannot.—Have you not still that look which every day gives me fresh comfort? Oswald, your presence is a ray from heaven—can I then fear you?—not dare to read your eyes? but fall before you as before my murderer? Oh, Oswald! Oswald!" and she threw herself at his feet in supplication. "What do I see," he exclaimed, raising her vehemently, "would you dishonor me? Well, be it so. My regiment embarks in a month. I will remain, if you betray this all-commanding grief, but I shall not survive my shame."—"I ask you not to stay," she said; "but what harm can I do by following you!"—"We go to the West Indies, and no officer is allowed to take his wife."—"Well, well, at least let me go to England with you."—"My letters also tell me," answered he, "that reports concerning us are already in the papers there; that your identity is suspected; and your family, excited by Lady Edgarmond, refuses to meet or own you. Give me but time to reconcile them, to enforce your rights with your step-mother; for if I take you thither, and leave you, ere your name be cleared, you will endure all the severe opinions which I shall not be by to answer."—"Then you refuse me everything!" she said, and sank insensible to the earth, her forehead receiving a wound in the fall. Oswald shrieked at the sight. Thérésina entered in extreme alarm, and restored her mistress to animation; but when Corinne perceived, in an opposite mirror, her own pale and disfigured face—"Oswald," she sighed, "it was not thus I looked the day you met me first. I wore the crown of hope and fame, now blood and dust are on my brow; yet it is not for you to despise the state to which you have reduced me. Others may—but you cannot—you ought to pity me for loving thus—you must!"—"Stay," he cried, "that is too much;" and signing for Thérésina to retire, he took Corinne in his arms, saying: "Do what thou wilt with me. I must submit to the decrees of Heaven. I cannot abandon thee in this distress, nor lead thee to England, before I have secured thee against the insults of that haughty woman. I will stay with thee. I cannot depart." These words recalled Corinne to herself, yet overwhelmed her with despair. She felt the necessity that weighed upon her, and with her head reclined, remained long silent.—"Dearest!" said Oswald, "let me hear thy voice. I have no other support—no other guide now."—"No," replied Corinne, "you must leave me," and a flood of tears evinced her comparative resignation—"My love," said Nevil, "I call to witness this portrait of my father, and you best know whether his name is sacred to me—I swear to it that my life is in thy power, if needful to thy happiness. At my return from the islands I will see if I cannot restore thee to thy due rank in thy father's country. If I fail, I will return to Italy, and live or die at thy feet."—"But the dangers you are about to brave," she rejoined.—"Fear not, I shall escape; or if I perish, unknown as I am, my memory will survive in thy heart; and when thou hearest my name, thou mayest say, perhaps with tearful eyes, 'I knew him once—he loved me!'"—"Ah, leave me!" she cried: "you are deceived by my apparent calm; to-morrow, when the sun rises, and I tell myself, 'I shall see him no more,' the thought may kill me; happy if it does."—"Why, Corinne, do you fear? is my solemn promise nothing? Can your heart doubt it?"—"No, I respect—too much not to believe you: it would cost me more to abjure mine admiration than my love. I look on you as an angelic being—the purest, noblest, that ever shone on earth. It is not alone your grace that captivates me, but the idea that so many virtues never before united in one object, and that your heavenly look was only given to express them all. Far be it from me, then, to doubt your word. I should fly from the human face forever if Lord Nevil could deceive; but absence has so many perils, and that dreaded word adieu——"—"Have I not said, never—save from my death-bed?" demanded Oswald, with such emotion that Corinne, terrified for his health, strove to restrain her feelings, and became more pitiable than before. They then began to concert means of writing, and to speak on the certainty of rejoining each other. A year was the term fixed. Oswald securely believed that the expedition would not be longer away. Some time was left them still, and Corinne trusted to regain her strength; but when Oswald told her that the gondola would come for him at three in the morning, and she saw, by her dial, that the hour was not far distant, she shivered as if she were approaching the stake: her lover had every instant less resolution; and, Corinne, who had never seen his mastery over himself thus unmanned, was heart-broken at the sight of his great anguish. She consoled him, though she must have been a thousand times the most unhappy of the two.—"Listen!" she said: "when you are in London, fickle gallants will tell you that love-promises bind not your honor; that every Englishman has liked some Italian on his travels, and forgotten her on his return; that a few pleasant months ought to involve neither the giver nor the receiver; that at your age the color of your whole life cannot depend upon the temporary fascinations of a foreigner. Now this will seem right in the way of the world; but will you, who know the heart of which you made yourself the lord, find excuses in these sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound? Will barbarous jests from men of the day prevent your hand's trembling as it drives the poniard through this breast?"—"Hush," said Oswald: "you know it is not your grief alone restrains me: but where could I find such bliss as I have owed to you? Who, in the universe, can understand me as you do? Corinne, you are the only woman who can feel or inspire true love, that harmonious intelligence of hearts and souls, which I shall never enjoy except with you. You know I am not fickle: I look on all things seriously; is it then against you only that I should belie my nature?"—"No," answered Corinne; "you would not treat my fond sincerity with scorn; it is not you, Oswald, who could remain insensible to my despair; but to you my step-mother will say all that can sully my past life. Spare me the task of telling you beforehand her pitiless remarks. Far from what talents I may boast disarming her, they are my greatest errors in her eyes. She cannot feel their charm, she only sees their danger: whatever is unlike the destiny she herself chose seems useless, if not culpable. The poetry of the heart to her appears but an impertinence, which usurps the right of depreciating common sense. It is in the name of virtues I respect as much as you do that she will condemn my character and fate. Oswald, she will call me unworthy of you."—"And how should I hear that?" interrupted he: "what virtues dare she rate above your generosity, your frankness? No, heavenly creature! be common minds judged by common rules; but shame befall the being you have loved who does not more revere than even adore you. Peerless in love and truth, Corinne! my firmness fails; if you sustain me not, I can never fly. It is from you I must receive the power to pain you."—"Well," said Corinne, "there are some seconds yet ere I must recommend myself to God, and beg he will enable me to hear the hour of your departure strike. Oh, Oswald, we love each other with deep tenderness. I have intrusted you with all my secrets; the facts were nothing—but the most private feelings of my heart, you know them all. I have not a thought that is not wedded to thee: if I write aught in which my soul expands, thou art mine inspiration. I address myself to thee, as I shall my latest sigh. What, then, is my asylum if thou leavest me? The arts will retrace thine image, music thy voice. Genius, which formerly entranced my spirit, is nothing now but love, and unshared with thee must perish. Oh, God!" she added, raising her eyes to heaven, "deign but to hear me! Thou art not merciless to our noblest sorrows; take back my life when he has ceased to love: it will be then but suffering. He carries with him all my highest, softest feelings: if he permits the fire shrined in his breast to be extinguished, wherever I may be, my life, too, will be quenched. Great God! thou didst not frame me to outlive my better self, and what should I become in ceasing to esteem him? He ought to love me ever—I feel he ought—my affection should command his! Oh! heavenly Father! death or his love!"

As she concluded this prayer she turned to Oswald, and beheld him prostrated before her in strong convulsions: he repelled her cares, as if his reason were entirely lost. Corinne gently pressed his hand, repeating to him all he had said to her, assuring him that she relied on his return. Her words somewhat composed him; yet the nearer the hour of separation drew, the more impossible it seemed to part. "Why," he said, "should we not go to the altar and at once take our eternal oaths?" All the firmness, all the pride of Corinne, revived at these words. Oswald had told her that a woman's grief once before subdued him, but his love had chilled with every sacrifice he made. After a moment's silence, she replied: "No, you must see your country and your friends before you adopt this resolution. I owe it now, my Lord, to the pangs of parting, and I will not accept it." He took her hand. "At least," he said, "I swear again my faith is bound to this ring; while you preserve it, never shall another attain a right over my actions; if you at last reject me, and send it back——"—"Cease," she interposed, "cease to talk of a fear you never felt; I cannot be the first to break our sacred tie, and almost blush to assure you of what you but too well know already." Meanwhile, the time advanced. Corinne turned pale at every sound. Nevil remained in speechless grief beside her; at last a light gleamed through the window, and the black, hearse-like gondola stopped before the door. Corinne uttered a scream of fright, and fell into Oswald's arms, crying: "They are here—adieu—leave me—all is over!"—"Oh God, oh my father!" he exclaimed; "what do ye exact of me?" He embraced and wept over his beloved, who continued: "Go! it must be done—go!"—"Let me call Thérésina," he said; "I cannot leave you thus alone."—"Alone!" she repeated: "shall I not be alone till you return?"—"I cannot quit this room; it is impossible," he articulated, with desperation.—"Well," said Corinne, "then it is I must give the signal. I will open the door; but when I have done so, spare me a few short instants."—"Yes, yes," he murmured, "let us be still together, though these cruel combats are even worse than absence." They now heard the boatmen calling up Lord Nevil's servants; one of whom soon tapped at the door, informing him that all was ready.—"All is ready," echoed Corinne, and knelt beside his father's portrait. Doubtless, her former life then passed in review before her; she exaggerated every fault, and feared herself unworthy of Divine compassion, though far too wretched to exist without it. When she arose, she held forth her hand to Nevil, saying: "Now I can bid you farewell—a moment more, and, perhaps, I could not. May God protect your steps and mine—for I must need his care!" Oswald flung himself once more into her arms, trembling and pale like one prepared for torture, and left the room, where, perhaps, for the last time, he had loved, and felt himself beloved, as few have ever been, or ever can be.

When he disappeared, a horrid palpitation attacked Corinne; she could not breathe; everything she beheld looked unreal; objects seemed vanishing from her sight; the chamber tottering as from a shock of earthquake. For a quarter of an hour she heard the servants completing the preparations for this journey. He was still near; she might yet again behold him, speak to him once more; but she would not trust herself. Oswald lay almost senseless in the gondola. At last it rowed away: and at that moment, Corinne fled forth to recall him; but Thérésina stopped her. A heavy rain was falling, and a high wind arose; the house was now, indeed, shaken like a ship at sea, and Oswald had to cross the Lagune in such weather! Corinne descended, purposing to follow him, at least till he should land in safety; but it was so dark that not a single gondola was plying: she walked, in dreadful agitation, the narrow pavement that divides the houses from the water. The storm increased; she called upon the boatmen, who mistook her cries for those of some poor creature drowning—yet no one dared approach, the waves of the grand canal had swollen so formidably. Corinne remained till daybreak in this state; meanwhile the tempest ceased. One of the gondoliers brought word from Oswald that he had crossed securely. That moment was almost a happy one; and it was some hours ere the unfortunate creature again felt the full weight of absence, or calculated the long days which but anxiety and grief might henceforth occupy.

CHAPTER IV.

During the first part of his journey, Oswald was frequently on the point of returning; but the motives for perseverance vanquished this desire. We make a solemn step towards the limits of Love's empire, after we have once disobeyed him—the dream of his resistlessness is over. On approaching England, all Oswald's homefelt recollections returned. The year he had passed abroad had no connection with any other era of his life. A glorious apparition had charmed his fancy, but could not change the tastes, the opinions, of which his existence had been, till then, composed. He regained himself; and though regret prevented his yet feeling any delight, his thoughts began to steady from the Italian intoxication which had unsettled them. No sooner had he landed, than his mind was struck with the ease, the order, the wealth, and industry he looked on; the habits and inclinations to which he was born waked with more force than ever.

In a land where men have so much dignity, and women so much virtue, where domestic peace is the basis of public welfare, Oswald could but remember Italy to pity her. He saw the stamp of human reason upon all things; he had lately found, in social life as in state institutions, nothing but confusion, weakness, and ignorance. Painting and poetry gave place in his heart to freedom and to morals; and, much as he loved Corinne, he gently blamed her for wearying of a race so wise, so noble. Had he left her imaginative land for one of bare frivolity, he would have pined for it still; but now he exchanged the vague yearnings after romantic rapture, for pride in the truest blessings—security and independence. He returned to a career that suits man's mind—action that has an aim! Reverie may be the heritage of women, weak and resigned from their birth; but man would win what he desires: his courage irritates him against his fate, unless he can direct it by his will. In London, Oswald met his early friends: he heard that language so condensed in power, that it seems to imply more thoughts than it explains. Again he saw those serious countenances that kindle or that melt so suddenly, when deep affections triumph over their habit of reserve. He once more tasted the pleasure of making discoveries in the human heart, there by degrees revealed to the observant eye. He felt himself in his own land, and those who never left it know not by how many links it is endeared to them. The image of Corinne mingled with all these impressions; and the more reluctant he felt to leave his country, the more he wished to marry, and fix in Scotland with her. He was even impatient to embark that he might return the sooner; but the expedition was suspended, though still liable to be ordered abroad immediately. No officer, therefore, could dispose of his time even for a fortnight. Lord Nevil doubly felt his separation from Corinne, having neither leisure nor liberty to form or follow any decided plan. He passed six weeks in London, fretted by every moment thus lost to her. Finally, he resolved to beguile his impatience by a short visit to Northumberland, and, by influencing Lady Edgarmond to recognize the daughter of her late Lord, contradict the report of her death, and the unfavorable insinuations of the papers: for he longed to tender her the rank and respect so thoroughly her due.

CHAPTER V.

Oswald reflected with emotion that he was about to behold the scene in which Corinne had passed so many years. He felt embarrassed by the necessity of informing Lady Edgarmond that he could not make Lucy his wife. The north of England, too, reminded him of Scotland, and the memory of his father was never absent from his mind.

When he reached Lady Edgarmond's estate, he was struck by the good taste which pervaded its grounds; and, as the mistress of the mansion was not ready to receive him, he walked awhile in the park: through its foliage he beheld a youthful and elegant figure reading with much attention. A beautiful fair curl, escaping from her bonnet, told him that this was Lucy, whom three years had improved from child to woman. He approached her, bowed, and forgetting where he was, would have imprinted a respectful kiss upon her hand, after the Italian mode; but the young lady drew back, and, blushing as she courtesied, replied, "I will inform my mother, sir, that you desire to see her." She withdrew, and Nevil remained awed by the modest air of that angelic face. Lucy had just entered her sixteenth year; her features were extremely delicate; she had a little outgrown her strength, as might be judged by her gait and mutable complexion. Her blue eyes were so downcast that her countenance owed its chief attraction to these rapid changes of color, which alone betrayed her feelings. Oswald, since he had dwelt in the south, had never beheld this species of expression. He reproached himself for having accosted her with such familiarity; and, as he followed her to the castle, mused on the perfect innocence of a girl who had never left her mother, nor felt one emotion stronger than filial tenderness. Lady Edgarmond was alone when she received him. He had seen her twice, some years before, without any particular notice; but now he observed her carefully, comparing her with the descriptions of Corinne. He found them correct in many respects; yet he thought that he detected more sensibility than she had done, not being accustomed, like himself, to guess what such self-regulated physiognomies conceal. His first anxiety was on Corinne's account, and he began the conversation by praising Italy. "It is an amusing residence for men," returned Lady Edgarmond; "but I should be very sorry if any woman, in whom I felt an interest, could long be pleased with it."—"And yet," continued Oswald, already hurt by this insinuation, "I found there the most distinguished woman I ever met."—"Probably, as to mental attainments; but an honorable man seeks other qualities in the companion of his life."—"And he would find them!" he said, warmly: he might have made his meaning clear at once, but that Lucy entered, and said a few words apart to her mother, who replied aloud: "No, my dear, you cannot go to your cousin's to-day. Lord Nevil dines here." Lucy blushed, seated herself beside her mother, and took up her embroidery, from which she never raised her eyes, nor did she utter a syllable. Nevil was almost angry: it was most probable that Lucy knew there had been some idea of their union: he remembered all Corinne had said on the probable effects of the severe education Lady Edgarmond would give her daughter. In England, young girls are usually more at liberty than married women: reason and morality alike favor their privileges; but Lady Edgarmond would have had all females thus rigorously secluded. Oswald could not, before Lucy, explain his intentions relative to Corinne; and Lady Edgarmond kept up a discourse on other subjects, with a firm and simple good sense, that extorted his deference. He would have combated her strict opinions, but he felt that if he used one word in a different acceptation from her own, she would form an opinion which nothing could efface; and he hesitated at this first step, so irreparable with a person who will make no individual exceptions, but judges everything by fixed and general rules. Dinner was announced; and Lucy offered her arm to Lady Edgarmond. Oswald then first discovered that his hostess walked with great difficulty. "I am suffering," she said, "from a painful, perhaps a fatal ailment." Lucy turned pale; and her mother resumed, with a more gentle cheerfulness: "My daughter's attention has once saved my life, and may preserve it long." Lucy bent her head, and when she raised it, her lashes were still wet with tears; yet she dared not even take her mother's hand: all had passed at the bottom of her heart; and she was only conscious of a stranger's presence, from the necessity of concealing her agitation. Oswald deeply felt this restraint of hers, and his mind, so lately thrilled by passionate eloquence, refreshed itself by contemplating so chastely simple a picture. Lucy seemed enveloped in some immaculate veil, that sweetly baffled his speculations. During dinner she spared her mother from all fatigue—serving everything herself; and Nevil only heard her voice when she offered to help him; but these common-place courtesies were performed with such enchanting grace, that he asked himself how it was possible for such slight actions to betray so much soul. "One must have," he said to himself, "either the genius of Corinne, that surpasses all one could imagine, or this pure unconscious mystery, which leaves every man free to suppose whatever virtues he prefers."

The mother and daughter rose from table: he would have followed them; but her Ladyship adhered so scrupulously to old customs, that she begged he would wait till they sent to let him know the tea was ready. He joined them in a quarter of an hour. Most part of the evening passed without his having one opportunity of speaking to Lady Edgarmond as he designed. He was about to depart for the town, purposing to return on the morrow, when his hostess offered him a room in the castle. He accepted it without deliberation; but repented his readiness, on perceiving that it seemed to be taken as a proof of his inclination towards Lucy. This was but an additional motive for his renewing the conversation respecting Corinne. Lady Edgarmond proposed a turn in the garden. Oswald offered her his arm; she looked at him steadfastly, and then said: "That is right: I thank you." Lucy resigned her parent to Nevil, but timidly whispered, "Pray, my Lord, walk slowly!" He started at this first private intelligence with her: those pitying tones were just such as he might have expected from a being above all earthly passions. He did not think his sense of such a moment any treason to Corinne. They returned for evening prayer, at which her Ladyship always assembled her household in the great hall. Most of them were very infirm, having served the fathers of Lord and Lady Edgarmond. Oswald was thus reminded of his paternal home. Every one knelt, except the matron, who, prevented by her lameness, listened with folded hands and downcast eyes in reverent silence. Lucy was on her knees beside her parent: it was her duty to read the service; a chapter of the Gospel, followed by a prayer adapted to domestic country life, composed by the mistress of the house: its somewhat austere expressions were contrasted by the soft voice that breathed them.

After blessing the king and country, the servants and the kindred of this family, Lucy tremblingly added, "Grant also, O God! that the young daughter of this house may live and die with soul unsullied by a single thought or feeling that conforms not with her duty; and that her mother, who must soon return to thee for judgment, may have some claim or pardon for her faults, in the virtues of her only child."

Lucy said this prayer daily; but now Oswald's presence so affected her, that tears, which she strove to conceal, flowed down her cheeks. He was touched with respectful tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infantine face, that looked as if it still remembered having dwelt in heaven. Its beauty, thus surrounded by age and decrepitude, was an image of divine commiseration. He reflected on her lonely life, deprived of all the pleasures, all the flatteries, due to her youth and charms: his soul melted towards her. The mother of Lucy, too, he found a person more severe to herself than to others. The limits of her mind might rather be attributed to the strength of her principles than to any natural deficiencies: the asperity of her character was acquired from repressed impulses; and, as Corinne had said, her affection for her child gained force from this extreme control of all others.

By ten in the evening all was silent throughout the castle, and Oswald left to muse over his last few hours: he owned not to himself that Lucy had made an impression on his heart; perhaps, as yet, this was not the case; but in spite of the thousand attractions Corinne offered to his fancy, there was one class of ideas, wherein Lucy might have reigned more supremely than her sister. The image of domestic felicity suited better with a retreat in Northumberland than with a coronation at the Capitol; besides, he remembered which of these sisters his father had selected for him: but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had given her his faith, and therefore persisted in his intention of confiding this to Lady Edgarmond on the morrow. He fell asleep thinking of Italy, but still the form of Lucy flitted lightly before him. He awoke: when he slept again, the same dream returned; at last this ethereal shape seemed flying from him; he strove to detain her, and started up, as she disappeared, fearing her lost to him. The day had broken, and he left his room to enjoy a morning walk.

CHAPTER VI.

The sun was just risen. Oswald supposed that no one was yet stirring, till he perceived Lucy already drawing in a balcony. Her hair, not yet fastened, was waving in the gale: she looked so like his dream, that for a moment he started, as if he had beheld a spirit; and though soon ashamed at having been so affected by such a natural circumstance, he remained for some time beneath her station, but she did not perceive him. As he pursued his walk, he wished more than ever for the presence that would have dissipated these half-formed impressions. Lucy was an enigma, which Corinne's genius could have solved; without her aid, it took a thousand changeful forms in his mind's eye. He re-entered the drawing-room, and found Lucy placing her morning's work in a little brown frame, facing her mother's tea-table. It was a white rose, on its leafy stalk, finished to perfection. "You draw, then?" he said.—"No, my Lord," she answered; "I merely copy the easiest flowers I can find: there is no master near us: the little I ever learned I owe to a sister who used to give me lessons." She sighed.—"And what is become of her?" asked Oswald.—"She is dead; but I shall always regret her."—He found that she, too had been deceived;[1] but her confession of regret evinced so amiable a disposition, that he felt more pleased, more affected, than before. Lucy was about to retire, remembering that she was alone with Lord Nevil, when Lady Edgarmond joined them. She looked on her daughter with surprise and displeasure, and motioned her to withdraw. This first informed Oswald that Lucy had done something very extraordinary, in remaining a few minutes with a man out of her mother's presence; and he was as much gratified as he would have been by a decided mark of preference under other auspices. Lady Edgarmond took her seat, and dismissed the servant who had supported her to the sofa. She was pale, and her lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to Lord Nevil. These symptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet, animated by zeal for her he loved, he began: "Lady Edgarmond, I have often in Italy seen a female particularly interesting to you."—"I cannot believe it," she answered, dryly: "no one there interests me."—"I should think that the daughter of your husband had some claim on your affection."—"If the daughter of my husband be indifferent to her duties and reputation, though I surely cannot wish her any ill, I shall be very glad to hear no more of her."—"But," said Oswald, quickly, "if the woman your Ladyship deserts is celebrated by the world for her great and varied talents, will you forever thus disdain her?"—"Not the less, sir, for the abilities that wean her from her rightful occupations. There are plenty of actresses, artists, and musicians, to amuse society: in our rank, a woman's only becoming station is that which devotes her to her husband and children."—"Madam," returned Oswald, "such talents cannot exist without an elevated character and a generous heart: do you censure them for extending the mind, and giving a more vast, more general influence to virtue itself?"—"Virtue!" she repeated, with a bitter smile; "I know not what you mean by the word, so applied. The virtue of a young woman, who flies from her father's home, establishes herself in Italy, leads the freest life, receives all kinds of homage, to say no worse, sets an example pernicious to others as to herself, abandoning her rank, her family, her name——"—"Madam," interrupted Oswald, "she sacrificed her name to you, and to your daughter, whom she feared to injure."—"She knew that she dishonored it, then," replied the step-mother.—"This is too much," said Oswald, violently: "Corinne Edgarmond will soon be Lady Nevil, and we shall then see if you blush to acknowledge the daughter of your Lord. You confound with the vulgar herd a being gifted like no other woman—an angel of goodness, tender and diffident at heart, as she is sublime of soul. She may have had her faults, if that innate superiority that could not conform with common rules be one, but a single deed or word of hers might well efface them all. She will more honor the man she chooses to protect her than could the empress of a world."—"Be that man, then, my Lord!" said Lady Edgarmond, making an effort to restrain her feelings: "satirize me as narrow-minded; nothing you say can change me. I understand by morality, an exact observance of established rules; beyond which, fine qualities misapplied deserve at best but pity."—"The world would have been very sterile, my Lady," said Oswald, "had it always thoughts you do of genius and enthusiasm: human nature would have become a thing of mere formalities. But, not to continue this fruitless discussion, I will only ask, if you mean to acknowledge your daughter-in-law, when she is my wife?"—"Still less on that account," answered her Ladyship: "I owe your father's memory my exertions to prevent so fatal a union if I can."—"My father!" repeated Nevil, always agitated by that name.—"Are you ignorant," she continued, "that he refused her, ere she had committed any actual fault? foreseeing, with the perfect sagacity that so characterized him, what she would one day become?"—"How, madam! what more know you of this?"—"Your father's letter to Lord Edgarmond on the subject," interrupted the lady, "is in the hands of his old friend, Mr. Dickson. I sent it to him, when I heard of your connection with this Corinne, that you might read it on your return: it would not have become me to retain it." Oswald, after a few moments' silence, resumed: "I ask your Ladyship but for an act of justice, due to yourself, that is, to receive your husband's daughter as she deserves."—"I shall not, in any way, my Lord, contribute to your misery. If her present nameless and unmatronized existence be an obstacle to your marrying her, God, and your father, forbid that I should remove it!"—"Madam," he exclaimed, "her misfortunes are but added chains that bind me to her."—"Well," replied Lady Edgarmond, with an impetuosity to which she would not have given way had not her own child been thus deprived of a suitable husband, "well, render yourself wretched, then! she will be so too: she hates this country, and never will comply with its manners: this is no theatre for the versatile talents you so prize, and which render her so fastidious. She will carry you back to Italy: you will forswear your friends and native land, for a lovely foreigner, I confess, but for one who could forget you, if you wished it. Those flighty brains are ever changeful: deep griefs were made for the women you deem so common-place, those who live but for their homes and families." This was, perhaps, the first time in her life that Lady Edgarmond had spoken on impulse: it shook her weakened nerves; and, as she ceased, she sank back, half fainting. Oswald rang loudly for help. Lucy ran in alarmed, hastened to revive her parent, and cast on Nevil an uneasy look, that seemed to say: "Is it you who have made mamma so ill?" He felt this deeply, and strove to atone by attentions to Lady Edgarmond; but she repulsed him coldly, blushing to think that she had seemed to pride but little in her girl, by betraying this anxiety to secure her a reluctant bridegroom. She bade Lucy leave them, and said calmly: "My Lord, at all events, I beg that you will consider yourself free. My daughter is so young, that she is no way concerned in the project formed by your father and myself; but that being changed, it would be an indecorum for me to receive you until she is married." Nevil bowed.—"I will content myself, then," he said, "with writing to you on the fate of a person whom I can never desert."—"You are the master of that fate," concluded Lady Edgarmond, in a smothered voice; and Oswald departed. In riding down the avenue, he perceived, at a distance, the elegant figure of young Lucy. He checked his horse to look on her once more, and it appeared that she took the same direction with himself. The high road passed before a summer-house, at the end of the park; he saw her enter it, and went by with some reluctance, unable to discern her: he frequently turned his head, and, at a point from which the road was best commanded, observed a slight movement among the trees. He stopped; it ceased: uncertain whether he had guessed correctly, he proceeded, then abruptly rode back with the speed of lightning, as if he had dropped something by the way; there, indeed, he saw her, on the edge of the bank, and bowed respectfully: she drew down her veil, and hastily concealed herself in the thicket, forgetting that she thus tacitly avowed the motive which had brought her there. The poor child had never felt so guilty in her life; and far from thinking of simply returning his salute, she feared that she must have lost his good opinion by having been so forward. Oswald felt flattered by this blameless and timorous sincerity. "No one," thought he, "could be more candid than Corinne; but then, no one better knew herself or others. Lucy had all to learn. Yet this charm of the day, could it suffice for a life? this pretty ignorance cannot endure; and since we must penetrate the secrets of our own hearts at last, is not the candor which survives such examination worth more than that which precedes it?" This comparison, he believed, was but an amusement to his mind, which could never occupy it more gravely.