FOOTNOTES:
[28] I asked a little Tuscan girl which was the handsomer, she or her sister? "Ah!" answered she, "Il più bel viso è il mio;"—Mine is the most beautiful face.
[29] An Italian postillion, whose horse was dying, prayed for him, saying. "O Sant' Antonio, abbiate pietà dell' anima sua;"—O Saint Anthony, have mercy on his soul!
[30] Goëthe has a description of the carnival at Rome, which gives a faithful and animated picture of that festival.
Chapter ii.
Oswald, since his calamity, had not found spirits to seek the pleasure of music. He dreaded those ravishing strains so soothing to melancholy, but which inflict pain, when we are oppressed by real grief. Music awakens those bitter recollections which we are desirous to appease. When Corinne sang, Oswald listened to the words she uttered; he contemplated the expression of her countenance, it was she alone that occupied him; but if in the streets of an evening, several voices were joined, as it frequently happens in Italy, to sing the fine airs of the great masters, he at first endeavoured to listen, and then retired, because the emotion it excited, at once so exquisite and so indefinite, renewed his pain. However, there was a magnificent concert to be given in the theatre at Rome, which was to combine the talents of all the best singers. Corinne pressed Lord Nelville to accompany her to this concert, and he consented, expecting that his feelings would be softened and refined by the presence of her he loved.
On entering her box, Corinne was immediately recognised, and the remembrance of the Capitol adding to the interest which she usually inspired, the theatre resounded with applause. From every part of the house they cried, "Long live Corinne!" and the musicians themselves, electrified by this general emotion, began to play victorious strains; for men are led to associate triumph of every sort with war and battle. Corinne was intimately affected with these universal tokens of admiration and respect. The music, the applause, the bravos, and that indefinable impression, which a multitude of people expressing one sentiment always produces, awakened those feelings which, in spite of her efforts to conceal them, appeared in her eyes suffused with tears, and the palpitation of her heart equally visible. Oswald, jealous of this emotion, approached her, saying in a low voice,—"It would be a pity madam to snatch you from this brilliant popularity, it is certainly equal to love, since it produces the same effect in your heart."—Having spoken thus, he retired to the further end of the box without waiting for any reply. These words produced the most cruel agitation in the bosom of Corinne, and in a moment destroyed all the pleasure she received from these expressions of applause, which principally gave her delight because they were witnessed by Oswald.
The concert began—he who has not heard Italian singing can have no idea of music! Italian voices are so soft and sweet, that they recall at once the perfume of flowers, and the purity of the sky. Nature has destined the music for the climate: one is like a reflection of the other. The world is the work of one mind, expressed in a thousand different forms. The Italians, during a series of ages, have been enthusiastically fond of music. Dante, in his poem of purgatory, meets with one of the best singers of his age; being entreated, he sings one of his delicious airs, and the ravished spirits are lulled into oblivion of their sufferings, until recalled by their guardian angel. The Christians, as well as the pagans, have extended the empire of music beyond the grave. Of all the fine arts, it is that which produces the most immediate effect upon the soul. The others are directed to some particular idea; but this appeals to the intimate source of our existence, and entirely changes our inmost soul. What is said of Divine Grace, which suddenly transforms the heart, may humanly speaking be applied to the power of melody; and among the presentiments of the life to come, those which spring from music are not to be despised.
Even the gaiety which the comic music of Italy is so well calculated to excite, is not of that vulgar description which does not speak to the imagination. At the very bottom of the mirth which it excites, will be found poetical sensations and an agreeable reverie, which mere verbal pleasantry never could inspire. Music is so fleeting a pleasure, that it glides away almost at the same time we feel it, in such a manner, that a melancholy impression is mingled with the gaiety which it excites; but when expressive of grief, it also gives birth to a sweet sentiment. The heart beats more quickly while listening to it, and the satisfaction caused by the regularity of the measure, by reminding us of the brevity of time, points out the necessity of enjoying it. You no longer feel any void, any silence, around you; life is filled; the blood flows quickly; you feel within you that motion which gives activity to life, and you have no fear of the external obstacles with which it is beset.
Music redoubles the ideas which we possess of the faculties of the soul; when listening to it we feel capable of the noblest efforts. Animated by music, we march to the field of death with enthusiasm. This divine art is happily incapable of expressing any base sentiment, any artifice, any falsehood. Calamity itself, in the language of music, is stript of its bitterness; it neither irritates the mind nor rends the heart. Music gently raises that weight which almost constantly oppresses the heart when we are formed for deep and serious affections; that weight which sometimes becomes confounded with the very sense of our existence, so habitual is the pain which it causes. It seems to us in listening to pure and delectable sounds, that we are about to seize the secret of the Creator, and penetrate the mystery of life. No language can express this impression, for language drags along slowly behind primitive impressions, as prose translators behind the footsteps of poets. It is only a look that can give some idea of it; the look of an object you love, long fixed upon you, and penetrating by degrees so deeply into your heart, that you are at length obliged to cast down your eyes to escape a happiness so intense, that, like the splendour of another life, it would consume the mortal being who should presume stedfastly to contemplate it.
The admirable exactness of two voices perfectly in harmony produces, in the duets of the great Italian masters, a melting delight which cannot be prolonged without pain. It is a state of pleasure too exquisite for human nature; and the soul then vibrates like an instrument which a too perfect harmony would break. Oswald had obstinately kept at a distance from Corinne during the first part of the concert; but when the duet began, with faintly-sounding voices, accompanied by wind instruments, whose sounds were more pure than the voices themselves, Corinne covered her face with her handkerchief, entirely absorbed in emotion; she wept, but without suffering—she loved, and was undisturbed by any fear. Undoubtedly the image of Oswald was present to her heart; but this image was mingled with the most noble enthusiasm, and a crowd of confused thoughts wandered over her soul: it would have been necessary to limit these thoughts in order to render them distinct. It is said that a prophet traversed seven different regions of heaven in a minute. He who could thus conceive all that an instant might contain, must surely have felt the sublime power of music by the side of the object he loved. Oswald felt this power, and his resentment became gradually appeased. The feelings of Corinne explained and justified everything; he gently approached her, and Corinne heard him breathing by her side in the most enchanting passage of this celestial music. It was too much—the most pathetic tragedy could not have excited in her heart so much sensation as this intimate sentiment of profound emotion which penetrated them both at the same time, and which each succeeding moment, each new sound, continually exalted. The words of a song have no concern in producing this emotion—they may indeed occasionally excite some passing reflection on love or death; but it is the indefinite charm of music which blends itself with every feeling of the soul; and each one thinks he finds in this melody, as in the pure and tranquil star of night, the image of what he wishes for on earth.
"Let us retire," said Corinne; "I feel ready to faint." "What ails you?" said Oswald, with uneasiness; "you grow pale. Come into the open air with me; come." They went out together. Corinne, leaning on the arm of Oswald, felt her strength revive from the consciousness of his support. They both approached a balcony, and Corinne, with profound emotion, said to her lover, "Dear Oswald, I am about to leave you for eight days." "What do you tell me?" interrupted he. "Every year," replied she, "at the approach of Holy Week, I go to pass some time in a convent, to prepare myself for the solemnity of Easter." Oswald advanced nothing in opposition to this intention; he knew that at this epoch, the greater part of the Roman ladies gave themselves up to the most rigid devotion, without however on that account troubling themselves very seriously about religion during the rest of the year; but he recollected that Corinne professed a different worship to his, and that they could not pray together. "Why are you not," cried he, "of the same religion as myself?" Having pronounced this wish, he stopped short. "Have not our hearts and minds the same country?" answered Corinne. "It is true," replied Oswald; "but I do not feel less painfully all that separates us." They were then joined by Corinne's friends; but this eight days' absence so oppressed his heart that he did not utter a word during the whole evening.
Chapter iii.
Oswald visited Corinne at an early hour, uneasy at what she had said to him. He was received by her maid, who gave him a note from her mistress informing him that she had entered the convent on that same morning, agreeably to the intention of which he had been apprised by her, and that she should not be able to see him until after Good Friday. She owned to him that she could not find courage to make known her intention of retiring so soon, in their conversation the evening before. This was an unexpected stroke to Oswald. That house, which the absence of Corinne now rendered so solitary, made the most painful impression upon his mind; he beheld her harp, her books, her drawings, all that habitually surrounded her; but she herself was no longer there. The recollection of his father's house struck him—he shuddered and, unable to support himself, sunk into a chair.
"In such a way as this," cried he, "I might learn her death! That mind, so animated, that heart, throbbing with life, that dazzling form, in all the freshness of vernal bloom, might be crushed by the thunderbolt of fate, and the tomb of youth would be silent as that of age. Ah! what an illusion is happiness! What a fleeting moment stolen from inflexible Time, ever watching for his prey! Corinne! Corinne! you must not leave me; it was the charm of your presence which deprived me of reflection; all was confusion in my thoughts, dazzled as I was by the happy moments which I passed with you. Now I am alone—now I am restored to myself, and all my wounds are opened afresh." He invoked Corinne with a kind of despair which could not be attributed to her short absence, but to the habitual anguish of his heart, which Corinne alone could assuage. Corinne's maid, hearing the groans of Oswald, entered the room and, touched with the manner in which he was affected by the absence of her mistress, said to him, "My lord, let me comfort you; I hope my dear lady will pardon me for betraying her secret. Come into my room, and you shall see your portrait." "My portrait!" cried he. "Yes; she has painted it from memory," replied Theresa (that was the name of Corinne's maid); "she has risen at five o'clock in the morning this week past, in order to finish it before she went to the convent."
Oswald saw this portrait, which was a striking likeness and most elegantly executed: this proof of the impression which he had made on Corinne penetrated him with the sweetest emotion. Opposite this portrait was a charming picture, representing the Blessed Virgin—and before this picture was the oratory of Corinne. This singular mixture of love and religion is common to the greater part of Italian women, attended with circumstances more extraordinary than in the apartment of Corinne; for free and unrestrained as was her life, the remembrance of Oswald was united in her mind with the purest hopes and purest sentiments; but to place thus the resemblance of a lover opposite an emblem of divinity, and to prepare for a retreat to a convent by consecrating a week to paint that resemblance, was a trait that characterised Italian women in general rather than Corinne in particular. Their kind of devotion supposes more imagination and sensibility than seriousness of mind and seventy of principles;—nothing could be more contrary to Oswald's religious ideas; yet how could he find fault with Corinne, at the very moment when he received so affecting a proof of her love?
He minutely surveyed this chamber, which he now entered for the first time: at the head of Corinne's bed he saw the portrait of an elderly man, whose physiognomy was not Italian; two bracelets were hanging near this portrait, one formed of dark and light hair twisted together; the other was of the most lovely flaxen, and what appeared a most remarkable effect of chance, perfectly resembled that of Lucilia Edgermond, which he had observed very attentively three years ago on account of its extreme beauty. Oswald contemplated these bracelets without uttering a word, for to interrogate Theresa he felt to be unworthy of him. But Theresa, fancying she guessed Oswald's thoughts, and wishing to remove from his mind every jealous suspicion, hastened to inform him that during eleven years that she had waited on Corinne, her mistress had always worn these bracelets, and that she knew they were composed of the hair of her father and mother, and that of her sister. "You have been eleven years with Corinne," said Lord Nelville; "you know then—" blushing, he suddenly checked himself, ashamed of the question he was about to put, and quitted the house immediately, to avoid saying another word.
In going away, he turned about several times to behold the windows of Corinne, and when he had lost sight of her habitation, he felt a sadness now new to him—that which springs from solitude. In the evening, he sought to dissipate his melancholy by joining a distinguished assembly in Rome; for to find a charm in reverie, we must in our happy as well as in our clouded moments, be at peace with ourselves.
The party he visited was soon insupportable to Lord Nelville, inasmuch as it made him feel more sensibly all the charms that Corinne could diffuse through society, by observing the void caused by her absence. He essayed to converse with some ladies, who answered him in that insipid phraseology which is established to avoid the true expression of our sentiments and opinions, if those who use it have anything of this sort to conceal. He approached several groups of gentlemen who seemed by their voice and gesture to be discoursing upon some important subject; he heard them discussing the most trivial topic in the most common manner. He then sat down to contemplate at his ease, that vivacity without motive and without aim which is found in most numerous assemblies; nevertheless, mediocrity in Italy is by no means disagreeable; it has little vanity, little jealousy, and much respect for superiority of mind; and if it fatigues with its dulness, it hardly ever offends by its pretensions.
It was in these very assemblies, however, that Oswald had found so much to interest him a few days before; the slight obstacle which the company opposed to his conversation with Corinne,—the speedy opportunity which she took to return to him as soon as she had been sufficiently polite to the rest of the circle,—the similarity of sentiment which existed between them in the observations which the company suggested,—the pleasure which Corinne took when discoursing in Oswald's presence, to address indirectly to him some reflection of which he alone comprehended the true meaning, had attached such recollections to every part of this very room, that Oswald had been deluded so far as to believe that there was something amusing in these assemblies themselves. "Ah!" said he, when departing, "it was here as every where else—she was the life of the scene; let me rather seek the most desert spot till she return. I shall feel her absence less bitterly when there is nothing about me bearing the resemblance of pleasure."
Book x.
HOLY WEEK.
Chapter i.
Oswald passed the following day in the gardens of some monasteries. He went first to that of the Carthusians, and stopped some time before he entered, to contemplate two Egyptian lions which are at a little distance from the gate. Those lions have a remarkable expression of strength and repose; there is something in their physiognomy belonging neither to the animal nor the man: they seem one of the forces of nature and enable us to form a conception how the gods of the Pagan theology might be represented under this emblem.
The Carthusian monastery is built upon the ruins of the Thermæ of Diocletian; and the church by the side of the monastery, is decorated with such of its granite columns as remained standing. The monks who inhabit this retreat are very eager to show them, and the interest they take in these ruins seems to be the only one they feel in this world. The mode of life observed by the Carthusians, supposes in them either a very limited mind, or the most noble and continued elevation of religious sentiments; this succession of days without any variety of event, reminds us of that celebrated line:
Sur les mondes détruits le Temple dort immobile.
The Temple sleeps motionless on the ruins of worlds.
The whole employment of their life serves but to contemplate death. Activity of mind, with such an uniformity of existence, would be a most cruel torment. In the midst of the cloister grow four cypresses. This dark and silent tree, which is with difficulty agitated by the wind, introduces no appearance of motion into this abode. Near the cypresses is a fountain, scarcely heard, whose fall is so feeble and slow, that one would be led to call it the clepsydra of this solitude, where time makes so little noise. Sometimes the moon penetrates it with her pale lustre, and her absence and return may be considered as an event in this monotonous scene.
Those men who exist thus, are nevertheless the same to whom war and all its bustle would scarcely suffice if they had been brought up to it.
The different combinations of human destiny upon earth afford an inexhaustible source of reflection. A thousand accidents pass, and a thousand habits are formed in the interior of the soul, which make every individual a world and the subject of a history. To know another perfectly, would be the task of a whole life; what is it then that we understand by knowing men? To govern them is practicable by human wisdom, but to comprehend them belongs to God alone.
From the Carthusian monastery Oswald repaired to that of St Bonaventure, built upon the ruins of the palace of Nero; there, where so many crimes have been committed without remorse, poor monks, tormented by scruples of conscience, impose upon themselves the most cruel punishment for the slightest fault. "Our only hope," said one of these devotees, "is that at the hour of death our sins will not have exceeded our penances." Lord Nelville, as he entered this monastery struck his foot against a trap, and asking the use of it—"It leads to our place of interment;" said one of the young monks, who was already struck with the malady caused by the malaria. The inhabitants of the south being very much afraid of death, we are astonished to find institutions in Italy which fix the ideas upon this point; but it is natural to be fond of thoughts that inspire us with dread. There is, as it were, an intoxication of sadness, which does good to the soul by occupying it entirely.
An ancient Sarcophagus of a young child serves for the fountain to this convent. The beautiful Palm-tree of which Rome boasts, is the only tree of any sort in the garden of these monks; but they pay no attention to external objects. Their discipline is too rigorous to allow any kind of latitude to the mind. Their looks are cast down, their gait is slow, they make no use of their will. They have abdicated the government of themselves, so fatiguing is this empire to its sad possessor. This day, however, did not produce much emotion in the soul of Oswald; the imagination revolts at death, presented under all its various forms in a manner so manifestly intentional. When we unexpectedly meet this memento mori, when it is nature and not man that speaks to our soul, the impression we receive is much deeper.
Oswald felt the most calm and gentle sensations when, at sunset, he entered the garden of San Giovanni e Paolo. The monks of this monastery are subjected to a much less rigid discipline, and their garden commands a view of all the ruins of ancient Rome. From this spot is seen the Coliseum, the Forum, and all the triumphal arches, the obelisks, and the pillars which remain standing. What a fine situation for such an asylum! The secluded monks are consoled for their own nothingness, in contemplating the monuments raised by those who are no more. Oswald strolled for a long time beneath the umbrageous walks of this garden, whose beautiful trees sometimes interrupt for a moment the view of Rome, only to redouble the emotion which is felt on beholding it again. It was that hour of the evening, when all the bells in Rome are heard chiming the Ave Maria.
—————squilla di lontano
Che paja il giorno pianger che si muore.
Dante.
—————the vesper bell from far,
That seems to mourn for the expiring day.
Carey's Tr.
The evening prayer is used to fix the time. In Italy they say: I will see you an hour before, or an hour after the Ave Maria: and the different periods of the day and of the night, are thus religiously designated. Oswald enjoyed the admirable spectacle of the sun which towards the evening descends slowly in the midst of the ruins, and appears for a moment submitted to the same destiny as the works of man. Oswald felt all his habitual thoughts revive within him. Corinne herself was too charming, and promised too much happiness to occupy his mind at this moment. He sought the spirit of his father in the clouds, where the force of imagination traced his celestial form, and made him hope to receive from heaven some pure and beneficent breath, as the benediction of his sainted parent.
Chapter ii.
The desire of studying and becoming acquainted with the Roman religion, determined Lord Nelville to seek an opportunity of hearing some of those preachers who make the churches of this city resound with their eloquence during Lent. He reckoned the days that were to divide him from Corinne, and during her absence, he wished to see nothing that appertained to the fine arts; nothing that derived its charm from the imagination. He could not support the emotion of pleasure produced by the masterpieces of art when he was not with Corinne; he was only reconciled to happiness when she was the cause of it. Poetry, painting, music, all that embellishes life by vague hopes, was painful to him out of her presence.
It is in the evening, with lights half extinguished, that the Roman preachers deliver their sermons in Holy Week. All the women are then clad in black, in remembrance of the death of Jesus Christ, and there is something very moving in this anniversary mourning, which has been so often renewed during a lapse of ages. It is therefore impossible to enter without genuine emotion those beautiful churches, where the tombs so fitly dispose the soul for prayer; but this emotion is generally destroyed in a few moments by the preacher.
His pulpit is a fairly long gallery, which he traverses from one end to the other with as much agitation as regularity. He never fails to set out at the beginning of a phrase and to return at the end, like the motion of a pendulum; nevertheless he uses so much action, and his manner is so vehement, that one would suppose him capable of forgetting everything. But it is, to use the expression, a kind of systematic fury that animates the orator, such as is frequently to be met with in Italy, where the vivacity of external action often indicates no more than a superficial emotion. A crucifix is suspended at the extremity of the pulpit; the preacher unties it, kisses it, presses it against his heart, and then restores it to its place with the greatest coolness, when the pathetic period is concluded. There is a means of producing effect which the ordinary preachers frequently have recourse to, namely, the square cap they wear on their head, which they take off, and put on again with inconceivable rapidity. One of them imputed to Voltaire, and particularly to Rousseau, the irreligion of the age. He threw his cap into the middle of the pulpit, charging it to represent Jean Jacques, and in this quality he harangued it, saying; "Well, philosopher of Geneva, what have you to object to my arguments?" He was silent for some minutes as if he waited for a reply—the cap made no answer: he then put it upon his head again and finished the conversation in these words: "now that you are convinced I shall say no more."
These whimsical scenes are often repeated among the Roman preachers; for real talent in this department is here very scarce. Religion is respected in Italy as an omnipotent law; it captivates the imagination by its forms and ceremonies, but moral tenets are less attended to in the pulpit than dogmas of faith, which do not penetrate the heart with religious sentiments. Thus the eloquence of the pulpit, as well as several other branches of literature, is absolutely abandoned to common ideas, which neither paint nor express any thing. A new thought would cause almost a panic in those minds at once so indolent and so full of ardour that they need the calm of uniformity, which they love because it offers repose to their thoughts. The ideas and phraseology of their sermons are confined to a sort of etiquette. They follow almost in a regular sequence, and this order would be disturbed if the orator, speaking from himself, were to seek in his own mind what he should say. The Christian philosophy, whose aim is to discover the analogy between religion and human nature, is as little known to the Italian preachers as any other kind of philosophy. To think upon matters of religion would scandalise them as much as to think against it; so much are they accustomed to move in a beaten track.
The worship of the Blessed Virgin is particularly dear to the Italians, and to every other nation of the south; it seems in some manner united with all that is most pure and tender in the affection we feel for woman. But the same exaggerated figures of rhetoric are found in what the preachers say upon this subject; and it is impossible to conceive why their gestures do not turn all that is most serious into mockery. Hardly ever in Italy do we meet in the august function of the pulpit, with a true accent or a natural expression.
Oswald, weary of the most tiresome of all monotony—that of affected vehemence, went to the Coliseum, to hear the Capuchin who was to preach there in the open air, at the foot of one of those altars which mark out, within the enclosure, what is called the Stations of the Cross. What can offer a more noble subject of eloquence than the aspect of this monument, of this amphitheatre, where the martyrs have succeeded to the gladiators! But nothing of this kind must be expected from the poor Capuchin, who, of the history of mankind, knows no more than that of his own life. Nevertheless, if we could be insensible to the badness of his discourse, we should feel ourselves moved by the different objects that surround him. The greater part of his auditors are of the confraternity of the Camaldoli; they are clad during their religious exercises in a sort of grey robe, which entirely covers the head and the whole body, with two little holes for the eyes. It is thus that the spirits of the dead might be represented. These men, who are thus concealed beneath their vestments, prostrate themselves on the earth and strike their breasts. When the preacher throws himself on his knees crying for mercy and pity, the congregation throw themselves on their knees also, and repeat this same cry, which dies away beneath the ancient porticoes of the Coliseum. It is impossible at this moment not to feel the most religious emotion; this appeal from earthly misery to celestial good, penetrates to the inmost sanctuary of the soul. Oswald started when all the audience fell on their knees; he remained standing, not to join in a worship foreign to his own; but it was painful to him that he could not associate publicly with mortals of any description, who prostrated themselves before God. Alas! is there an invocation of heavenly pity that is not equally suited to all men?
The people had been struck with the fine figure and foreign manners of Lord Nelville, but were by no means scandalized at his not kneeling down. There are no people in the world more tolerant than the Romans; they are accustomed to visitors who come only to see and observe; and whether by an effect of pride or of indolence, they never seek to instil their opinions into others. What is more extraordinary still, is, that during Holy Week particularly, there are many among them who inflict corporal punishment upon themselves; and while they are performing this flagellation, the church-doors are open, and they care not who enters. They are a people who do not trouble their heads about others; they do nothing to be looked at; they refrain from nothing because they are observed; they always proceed to their object, and seek their pleasure without suspecting that there is a sentiment called vanity, which has no object, no pleasure, except the desire of being applauded.
Chapter iii.
The ceremonies of Holy Week at Rome have been much spoken of. Foreigners come thither during Lent expressly to enjoy this spectacle; and as the music of the Sixtine Chapel and the illumination of St Peter's are beauties unique in themselves, it is natural that they should excite a lively curiosity; but expectation is not equally satisfied. The ceremonies themselves, properly speaking—the dinner of the twelve Apostles, served by the Pope, the washing of the feet by him, and all the different customs of this solemn season—excite very moving recollections; but a thousand inevitable circumstances often injure the interest and the dignity of this spectacle. All those who assist at it are not equally devout, equally occupied with pious ideas. These ceremonies, so often repeated, have become a sort of mechanical exercise for most people, and the young priests despatch the service of great festivals with an activity and a dexterity little calculated to produce any religious effect. That indefinite, that unknown, that mysterious impression, which religion ought to excite, is entirely destroyed by that species of attention which we cannot help paying to the manner in which each acquits himself of his functions. The avidity of some for the meats presented them, and the indifference of others in the genuflections which they multiply and the prayers which they recite, often strip the festival of its solemnity.
The ancient costumes which still serve for the vestments of the priests, agree badly with the modern style of treating the hair. The Greek bishop, with his long beard, has the most respectable appearance. The ancient custom also of making a reverence after the manner of women, instead of bowing as men do now, produces an impression by no means serious. In a word, the ensemble is not in harmony, and the ancient is blended with the modern without sufficient care being taken to strike the imagination, or at least to avoid all that may distract it. A worship, dazzling and majestic in its external forms, is certainly calculated to fill the soul with the most elevated sentiments; but care must be taken that the ceremonies do not degenerate into a spectacle in which each one plays his part—in which each one studies what he must do at such a moment; when he is to pray, when he is to finish his prayer; when to kneel down, and when to get up. The regulated ceremonies of a court introduced into a temple of devotion, confine the free movement of the heart, which can alone give man the hope of drawing near to the Deity.
These observations are pretty generally felt by foreigners, but the Romans for the most part do not grow weary of those ceremonies; and every year they find in them new pleasure. A singular trait in the character of the Italians is, that their mobility does not make them inconstant, nor does their vivacity render variety necessary to them. They are in every thing patient and persevering; their imagination embellishes what they possess; it occupies their life instead of rendering it uneasy; they think every thing more magnificent, more imposing, more fine, than it really is: and whilst in other nations vanity consists in an affectation of boredom, that of the Italians, or rather their warmth and vivacity, makes them find pleasure in the sentiment of admiration.
Lord Nelville, from all that the Romans had said to him, expected to be more affected by the ceremonies of Holy Week. He regretted the noble and simple festivals of the Anglican church. He returned home with a painful impression; for nothing is more sad than not being moved by that which ought to move us; we believe that our soul is become dry, we fear that the fire of enthusiasm is extinguished in us, without which the faculty of thinking can only serve to disgust us with life.
Chapter iv.
But Good Friday soon restored to Lord Nelville all those religious emotions, the want of which he so much regretted on the preceding days. The seclusion of Corinne was about to terminate; he anticipated the happiness of seeing her again: the sweet expectations of tender affection accord with piety; it is only a factious, worldly life, that is entirely hostile to it. Oswald repaired to the Sixtine Chapel to hear the celebrated miserere, so much talked of all over Europe. He arrived thither whilst it was yet day, and beheld those celebrated paintings of Michael Angelo, which represent the Last Judgment, with all the terrible power of the subject and the talent which has handled it. Michael Angelo was penetrated with the study of Dante; and the painter, in imitation of the poet, represents mythological beings in the presence of Jesus Christ; but he always makes Paganism the evil principle, and it is under the form of demons that he characterises the heathen fables. On the vault of the chapel are represented the prophets, and the sybils called in testimony by the Christians,
Teste David cum Sibyllâ.
A crowd of angels surround them; and this whole vault, painted thus, seems to bring us nearer to heaven, but with a gloomy and formidable aspect. Hardly does daylight penetrate the windows, which cast upon the pictures shadow rather than light. The obscurity enlarges those figures, already so imposing, which the pencil of Michael Angelo has traced; the incense, whose perfume has a somewhat funereal character, fills the air in this enclosure, and every sensation is prelusive to the most profound of all—that which the music is to produce.
Whilst Oswald was absorbed by the reflections which every object that surrounded him gave birth to, he saw Corinne, whose presence he had not hoped to behold so soon, enter the women's gallery, behind the grating which separated it from that of the men. She was dressed in black, all pale with absence, and trembled so when she perceived Oswald, that she was obliged to lean on the balustrade for support as she advanced; at this moment the miserere began.
The voices, perfectly trained in this ancient song, proceeded from a gallery at the commencement of the vault; the singers are not seen; the music seems to hover in the air; and every instant the fall of day renders the chapel more gloomy. It was not that voluptuous and impassioned music which Oswald and Corinne had heard eight days before; they were holy strains which counselled mortals to renounce every earthly enjoyment. Corinne fell on her knees before the grating and remained plunged in the most profound meditation. Oswald himself disappeared from her sight. She thought that in such a moment one could wish to die, if the separation of the soul from the body could take place without pain; if, on a sudden, an angel could carry away on his wings our sentiments and our thoughts—sparks of ethereal fire, returning towards their source: death would then be, to use the expression, only a spontaneous act of the heart, a more ardent and more acceptable prayer.
The miserere, that is to say, have mercy on us, is a psalm, composed of verses, which are sung alternately in a very different manner. A celestial music is heard by turns, and the verse following, in recitative, is murmured in a dull and almost hoarse tone. One would say, that it is the reply of harsh and stern characters to sensitive hearts; that it is the reality of life which withers and repels the desires of generous souls. When the sweet choristers resume their strain, hope revives; but when the verse of recitative begins, a cold sensation seizes upon the hearer, not caused by terror, but by a repression of enthusiasm. At length, the last piece, more noble and affecting than all the others, leaves a pure and sweet impression upon the soul: may God vouchsafe that same impression to us before we die.
The torches are extinguished; night advances, and the figures of the prophets and the sybils appear like phantoms enveloped in twilight. The silence is profound; a word spoken would be insupportable in the then state of the soul, when all is intimate and internal; as soon as the last sound expires, all depart slowly and without the least noise; each one seems to dread the return to the vulgar interests of the world.
Corinne followed the procession, which repaired to the temple of St Peter, then lighted only by an illuminated cross. This sign of grief, alone and shining in the august obscurity of this immense edifice, is the most beautiful image of Christianity in the midst of the darkness of life. A pale and distant light is cast on the statues which adorn the tombs. The living, who are perceived in crowds beneath these vaults, seem like pigmies, compared with the images of the dead. There is around the cross, a space which it lights up, where the Pope clad in white is seen prostrate, with all the cardinals ranged behind him. They remain there for half an hour in the most profound silence, and it is impossible not to be moved at this spectacle. We know not the subject of their prayers; we hear not their secret groanings; but they are old, they precede us in the journey to the tomb. When we in our turn pass into that terrible advance guard, may God by his grace so ennoble our age, that the decline of life may be the first days of immortality!
Corinne, also,—the young and beautiful Corinne,—was kneeling behind the train of priests, and the soft light reflected on her countenance, gave it a pale hue, without diminishing the lustre of her eyes. Oswald contemplated her as a beautiful picture—a being that inspired adoration. When her prayer was concluded she arose. Lord Nelville dared not yet approach her, respecting the religious meditation in which he thought her plunged; but she came to him first with a transport of happiness; and this sentiment pervading all her actions, she received with a most lively gaiety, all those who accosted her in St Peter's, which had become, all at once, a great public promenade, and a rendezvous to discuss topics of business or pleasure.
Oswald was astonished at this mobility which caused such opposite impressions to succeed each other; and though the gaiety of Corinne gave him pleasure, he was surprised to find in her no trace of the emotions of the day. He did not conceive how, upon so solemn, a day, they could permit this fine church to be converted into a Roman café, where people met for pleasure; and beholding Corinne in the midst of her circle, talking with so much vivacity, and not thinking on the objects that surrounded her, he conceived a sentiment of mistrust as to the levity of which she might be capable. She instantly perceived it, and quitting her company abruptly, she took the arm of Oswald to walk with him in the church, saying, "I have never held any conversation with you upon my religious sentiments—permit me to speak a little upon that subject now; perhaps I shall be able to dissipate those clouds which I perceive rising in your mind."
Chapter v.
"The difference of our religions, my dear Oswald," continued Corinne, "is the cause of that secret censure which you cannot conceal from me. Yours is serious and rigid—ours, cheerful and tender. It is generally believed that Catholicism is more rigorous than Protestantism; and that may be true in a country where a struggle has subsisted between the two religions; but we have no religious dissensions in Italy, and you have experienced much of them in England. The result of this difference is, that Catholicism in Italy has assumed a character of mildness and indulgence; and that to destroy it in England, the Reformation has armed itself with the greatest severity in principles and morals. Our religion, like that of the ancients, animates the arts, inspires the poets, and becomes a part, if I may so express it, of all the joys of our life; whilst yours, establishing itself in a country where reason predominates more than imagination, has assumed a character of moral austerity which will never leave it. Ours speaks in the name of love, and yours in the name of duty. Our principles are liberal, our dogmas are absolute; nevertheless, our despotic orthodoxy accommodates itself to particular circumstances, and your religious liberty enforces obedience to its laws without any exception. It is true that our Catholicism imposes very hard penance upon those who have embraced a monastic life. This state, freely chosen, is a mysterious relation between man and the Deity; but the religion of laymen in Italy is an habitual source of affecting emotions. Love, hope, and faith, are the principal virtues of this religion, and all these virtues announce and confer happiness. Our priests therefore, far from forbidding at any time the pure sentiment of joy, tell us that it expresses our gratitude towards the Creator. What they exact of us, is an observance of those practices which prove our respect for our worship, and our desire to please God, namely, charity for the unfortunate, and repentance for our errors. But they do not refuse absolution, when we zealously entreat it; and the attachments of the heart inspire a more indulgent pity amongst us than anywhere else. Has not Jesus Christ said of the Magdalen: Much shall be pardoned her, because she hath loved much? These words were uttered beneath a sky, beautiful as ours; this same sky implores for us the Divine mercy."
"Corinne!" answered Lord Nelville, "how can I combat words so sweet, and of which my heart stands so much in need? But I will do it, nevertheless, because it is not for a day that I love Corinne—I expect with her a long futurity of happiness and virtue. The most pure religion is that which makes a continual homage to the Supreme Being, by the sacrifice of our passions and the fulfilment of our duties. A man's morality is his worship of God; and it would be degrading the idea we form of the Creator, to suppose that He wills anything in relation with His creature, that is not worthy of His intellectual perfection. Paternal authority, that noble image of a master sovereignly good, demands nothing of its children that does not tend to make them better or happier. How then can we imagine that God would exact anything from man, which has not man himself for its object? You see also what confusion in the understandings of your people results from the practice of attaching more importance to religious ceremonies than to moral duties. It is after Holy Week, you know, that the greatest number of murders is committed at Rome. The people think, to use the expression, that they have laid in a stock during Lent, and expend in assassination the treasures of their penitence. Criminals have been seen, yet reeking with murder, who have scrupled to eat meat on a Friday; and gross minds, who have been persuaded that the greatest of crimes consists in disobeying the discipline of the church, exhaust their consciences on this head, and conceive that the Deity, like human sovereigns, esteems submission to his power more than every other virtue. This is to substitute the sycophancy of a courtier for the respect which the Creator inspires, as the source and reward of a scrupulous and delicate life. Catholicism in Italy, confining itself to external demonstrations, dispenses the soul from meditation and self-contemplation. When the spectacle is over, the emotion ceases, the duty is fulfilled, and one is not, as with us, a long time absorbed in thoughts and sentiments, which give birth to a rigid examination of one's conduct and heart."
"You are severe, my dear Oswald," replied Corinne; "it is not the first time I have remarked it. If religion consisted only in a strict observance of moral duties, in what would it be superior to reason and philosophy? And what sentiments of piety could we discover, if our principal aim were to stifle the feelings of the heart? The stoics were as enlightened as we, as to the duties and the austerity of human conduct; but that which is peculiar to Christianity is the religious enthusiasm which blends with every affection of the soul; it is the power of love and pity; it is the worship of sentiment and of indulgence, so favourable to the flights of the soul towards heaven. How are we to interpret the parable of the Prodigal Son, if not that love, sincere love, is preferred even to the most exact discharge of every duty? This son had quitted his paternal abode, and his brother had remained there; he had plunged into all the dissipation and pleasure of the world, and his brother had never deviated for a single moment from the regularity of domestic life; but he returned, full of love for his father and of repentance for his past follies, and his parent celebrated this return by a festival. Ah! can it be doubted that among the mysteries of our nature, to love and to love again is what remains to us of our celestial inheritance? Even our virtues are often too complicated with life, for us to comprehend the gradations of good, and what is the secret sentiment that governs and leads us astray: I ask of my God to teach me to adore him, and I feel the effect of my prayers in the tears that I shed. But to support this disposition of the soul, religious practices are more necessary than you think; they are a constant communication with the Deity; they are daily actions, unconnected with the interests of life and solely directed towards the invisible world. External objects are also a great help to piety; the soul falls back upon itself, if the fine arts, great monuments, and harmonic strains, do not reanimate that poetical genius, which is synonymous with religious inspiration.
"The most vulgar man, when he prays, when he suffers, and places hope in heaven, has at that moment something in him which he would express like Milton, Homer, or Tasso, if education had taught him to clothe his thoughts with words. There are only two distinct classes of men in the world; those who feel enthusiasm, and those who despise it; every other difference is the work of society. The former cannot find words to express their sentiments, and the latter know what it is necessary to say to conceal the emptiness of their heart. But the spring that bursts from the rock at the voice of heaven, that spring is the true talent, the true religion, the true love.
"The pomp of our worship; those pictures in which the kneeling saints express a continual prayer in their looks; those statues placed on the tombs as if they were one day to rise with their inhabitants; those churches and their immense domes, have an intimate connection with religious ideas. I like this splendid homage paid by men to that which promises them neither fortune nor power—to that which neither punishes nor rewards them, but by a sentiment of the heart. I then feel more proud of my being; I recognise something disinterested in man; and were even religious magnificence multiplied to an extreme, I should love that prodigality of terrestrial riches for another life, of time for eternity: enough is provided for the morrow, enough care is taken for the economy of human affairs. How I love the useless, useless if existence be only a painful toil for a miserable gain! But if on this earth we are journeying towards heaven, what can we do better than to take every means of elevating our soul, that it may feel the infinite, the invisible, and the eternal, in the midst of all the limits that surround us?
"Jesus Christ permitted a weak, and perhaps, repentant woman, to anoint His feet with the most precious perfumes, and repulsed those who advised that those perfumes should be reserved for a more profitable use. "Let her alone" said He, "for I am only with you for a short time." Alas! all that is good and sublime upon earth is only with us for a short time; age, infirmity, and death, would soon dry up that drop of dew which falls from heaven and only rests upon the flowers. Let us then, dear Oswald, confound everything,—love, religion, genius, the sun, the perfumes, music, and poetry: atheism only consists in coldness, egotism, and baseness. Jesus Christ has said: When two or three are gathered together in my name, I will be in the midst of them. And what is it O God! to be assembled in Thy name, if it be not to enjoy Thy sublime gifts, and to offer Thee our homage, to thank Thee for that existence which Thou hast given us; above all, to thank Thee, when a heart, also created by Thee is perfectly responsive to our own?"
At this moment a celestial inspiration animated the countenance of Corinne. Oswald could hardly refrain from falling on his knees before her in the midst of the temple, and was silent for a long time to indulge in the pleasure of recalling her words and retracing them still in her looks. At last he set about replying; for he would not abandon a cause that was dear to him. "Corinne," said he, then, "indulge your lover with a few words more. His heart is not dry; no, Corinne, believe me it is not, and if I am an advocate for austerity in principle and action, it is because it renders sentiment more deep and permanent. If I love reason in religion, that is to say, if I reject contradictory dogmas and human means of producing effect upon men, it is because I perceive the Deity in reason as well as in enthusiasm; and if I cannot bear that man should be deprived of any one of his faculties, it is because I conceive them all barely sufficient to comprehend truths which reflection reveals to him, as well as the instinct of the heart, namely, the existence of God, and the immortality of the soul. What can be added to these sublime ideas, to their union with virtue? What can we add thereto that is not beneath them? The poetical enthusiasm which gives you so many charms, is not, I venture to assert, the most salutary devotion. Corinne, how could we by this disposition prepare for the innumerable sacrifices which duty exacts of us! There was no revelation, except by the flights of the soul, when human destiny, present and future, only revealed itself to the mind through clouds; but for us, to whom Christianity has rendered it clear and positive, feeling may be our recompense, but ought not to be our only guide: you describe the existence of the blessed, not that of mortals. Religious life is a combat, not a hymn. If we were not condemned in this world to repress the evil inclinations of others and of ourselves, there would in truth be no distinction to be made except between cold and enthusiastic souls. But man is a harsher and more formidable creature than your heart paints him to you; and reason in piety, and authority in duty, are a necessary curb to the wanderings of his pride.
"In whatever manner you may consider the external pomp and multiplied ceremonies of your religion, believe me, my love, the contemplation of the universe and its author, will be always the chief worship; that which will fill the imagination, without any thing futile or absurd being found in it upon investigation. Those dogmas which wound my reason also cool my enthusiasm. Undoubtedly the world, such as it is, is a mystery which we can neither deny nor comprehend; it would therefore be foolish to refuse credence to what we are unable to explain; but that which is contradictory is always of human creation. The mysteries of heavenly origin are above the lights of the mind; but not in opposition to them. A German philosopher[31] has said: I know but two beautiful things in the universe: the starry sky above our heads, and the sentiment of duty in our hearts. In truth all the wonders of the creation are comprised in these words.
"So far from a simple and severe religion searing our hearts, I should have thought, before I had known you, Corinne, that it was the only one which could concentrate and perpetuate the affections. I have seen the most pure and austere conduct unfold in a man the most inexhaustible tenderness. I have seen him preserve even to old age, a virginity of soul, which the passions and their criminal effects would necessarily have withered. Undoubtedly repentance is a fine thing, and I have more need than any person to believe in its efficacy; but repeated repentance fatigues the soul—this sentiment can only regenerate once. It is the redemption which is accomplished at the bottom of our soul, and this great sacrifice cannot be renewed. When human weakness is accustomed to it, the power to love is lost; for power is necessary in order to love, at least with constancy.
"I shall offer some objections of the same kind to that splendid form of worship, which according to you, acts so powerfully upon the imagination. I believe the imagination to be modest, and retired as the heart. The emotions which are imposed on it, are less powerful than those born of itself. I have seen in the Cevennes, a Protestant minister who preached towards the evening in the heart of the mountains. He invoked the tombs of the French, banished and proscribed by their brethren, whose ashes had been assembled together in this spot. He promised their friends that they should meet them again in a better world. He said that a virtuous life secured us this happiness; he said: do good to mankind, that God may heal in your heart the wound of grief. He testified his astonishment at the inflexibility and hard-heartedness of man, the creature of a day, to his fellow man equally with himself the creature of a day, and seized upon that terrible idea of death, which the living have conceived, but which they will never be able to exhaust. In short, he said nothing that was not affecting and true: his words were perfectly in harmony with nature. The torrent which was heard in the distance, the scintillating light of the stars, seemed to express the same thought under another form. The magnificence of nature was there, that magnificence, which can feast the soul without offending misfortune; and all this imposing simplicity, touched the soul more deeply than dazzling ceremonies could have done."
On the second day after this conversation, Easter Sunday, Corinne and Lord Nelville went together to the square of St Peter, at the moment when the Pope appears upon the most elevated balcony of the church, and asks of heaven that benediction which he is about to bestow on the land; when he pronounces these words, urbi et orbi (to the city and to the world)—all the assembled people fell on their knees, and Corinne and Lord Nelville felt, by the emotion which they experienced at this moment, that all forms of worship resemble each other. The religious sentiment intimately unites men among themselves, when self-love and fanaticism do not make it an object of jealousy and hatred. To pray together in the same language, whatever be the form of worship, is the most pathetic bond of fraternity, of hope, and of sympathy, which men can contract upon earth.