CORINNE.
[CHAPTER I.]
The Count d'Erfeuil had been present at the capitol, and called the next day on Lord Nevil, saying, "My dear Oswald, would you like me to take you to Corinne's this evening?"—"How?" interrupted Oswald, eagerly, "do you know her?"—"Not I; but so famous a person is always gratified by a desire to see her; and I Wrote this morning for her permission to visit her house to-night, with you."—"I could have wished," replied Oswald, blushing, "that you had not named me thus without my consent."—"You should rather thank me for having spared you so many tedious formalities. Instead of going to an ambassador, who would have led you to a cardinal, who might have taken you to a lady, who, perhaps, could have introduced you to Corinne, I shall present you, you will present me, and we shall both be very well received."—"I am less confident than you; and, doubtless, it is but rational to conclude that so hasty a request must have displeased her."—"Not at all, I assure you, she is too sensible a girl, as her polite reply may prove."—"Has she then answered you? What had you said, my dear Count?"—"Ah! 'my dear Count,' is it?" laughed d'Erfeuil, "you melt apace, now you know that she has answered me; but I like you too well not to forgive all that. I humbly confess, then, that my note spoke more of myself than of you, and that hers gives your lordship's name precedence; but then, you know, I'm never jealous of my friends."—"Nay," returned Nevil, "it is not in vanity to expect that either of us can render ourselves agreeable to her. All I seek is sometimes to enjoy the society of so wondrous a being. This evening, then, since you have so arranged it."—"You will go with me?"—"Why, yes," rejoined Nevil, in visible confusion.—"Why, then, all this regret at what I've done? though 'tis but just to leave you the honour of being more reserved than I, always provided that you lose nothing by it. She's really a delightful person, this Corinne! with a vast deal of ease and cleverness. I could not very well make out what she talked of, but, I'll wager you, she speaks French; we can decide that to-night. She leads a strange life. Young, free, and wealthy, yet no one knows whether she has any lovers or no. It seems plain that at present she favors no one; that she should never have met, in this country, with a man worthy of her, don't astonish me in the least." D'Erfeuil ran on some time, in this kind of chat, without any interruption from Oswald. He said nothing which could exactly be called coarse, yet his light matter-of-fact manner, on a topic so interesting, clashed with the delicacy of his companion. There is a refinement which even wit and knowledge of the world cannot teach their votaries, who often wound the heart, without violating perfect politeness. Lord Nevil was much disturbed during the day in thinking over the visit of the evening; but he did his utmost to banish his disquieting presentiments, and strove to persuade himself that he might indulge a pleasing idea, without permitting it to decide his fate. False hope! the heart can receive no bliss from that which it knows must prove evanescent. Accompanied by the Count, he arrived at the house of Corinne, which was situated a little beyond the castle of St. Angelo, commanding a view of the Tiber. Its interior was ornamented with the most perfect elegance. The hall embellished by casts of the Niobe, Laöcoon, Venus de Medicis, and dying Gladiator; while in the sitting-room usually occupied by Corinne, he found but books, musical instruments, and simple furniture, arranged for the easy conversation of a domestic circle. Corinne was not there when he entered; and, while waiting for her, he anxiously explored the apartment, remarking in its every detail a happy combination of the best French, Italian, and English attributes; a taste for society, a love of letters, and a zeal for the fine arts. Corinne at last appeared; though ever picturesque, she was attired without the least research. She wore some antique cameos in her hair, and round her throat a band of coral. Natural and familiar as she was among her friends, they still recognised the divinity of the capitol. She bowed first to Count d'Erfeuil, though looking at his friend; then, as if repenting this insincerity, advanced towards Oswald, and twice repeated "Lord Nevil!" as if that name was associated in her mind with some affecting reminiscence. At last she said a few words in Italian on his obliging restoration of her crown. Oswald endeavored to express his admiration, and gently complained of her no longer addressing him in English. "Am I a greater stranger than I was yesterday?" he said.—"Certainly not," she replied; "but when one has been accustomed for many years of one's life to speak two or three different languages, one chooses that which will best express what one desires to say."—"Surely," he cried, "English is your native tongue—that which you speak to your friends."—"I am an Italian," interrupted Corinne. "Forgive me, my Lord! but I think I perceive in you the national importance which so often characterizes your countrymen. Here we are more lowly, neither self-complacent, like the French, nor proud of ourselves, like the English. A little indulgence suffices us from strangers; and we have the great fault of wanting, as individuals, that dignity which we are not allowed as a people; but when you know us, you may find some traces of our ancient greatness, such as, though few and half effaced, might be restored by happier times. I shall now and then speak to you in English, but Italian is more dear to me. I have suffered much," she added, sighing, "that I might live in Italy." D'Erfeuil here gallantly upbraided her for conversing in languages of which he was entirely ignorant. "In mercy, fair Corinne," he said, "speak French; you are truly worthy to do so." She smiled at this compliment, and granted its request, with ease, with purity, but with an English accent. Nevil and the Count were equally astonished; but the latter, who believed that he might say what he pleased, provided he did so with a grace, imagining that impoliteness dwelt not in matter but in manner, put the direct question to Corinne, on the reason of this singularity. She seemed at first somewhat uneasy, beneath this sudden interrogation; then recovering herself, said, "It seems, monsieur, that I must have learned French of an English person." He renewed his attack with earnest gayety. Corinne became more confused, and at last said, gravely, "During the four years that I lived in Rome, monsieur, none even of the friends most interested in me have ever inquired into my fate; they understood, from the first, that it was painful for me to speak of it." This check silenced the Count; but Corinne feared that she had hurt him; and, as he seemed so intimate with Lord Nevil, she dreaded still more, without confessing it to herself, that he might speak unfavorably of her to his companion, and therefore took sufficient pains in atoning to him. The Prince Castel Forte now arrived, with many of their mutual acquaintance, men of lively and amiable minds, of kind and courteous manners, so easily animated by the conversation of others, so capable of appreciating all that deserved approval, that they made the best listeners possible. The Italians are usually too indolent to display in society, or often in any way, the wit they really possess. The generality of them cultivate not, even in seclusion, the intellectual faculties of their natures; but they revel in the mental delights which find them without any trouble of their own. Corinne had all a Frenchwoman's sense of the ridiculous, and evinced it with all the fancy of an Italian; but she mingled in both such sweetness of temper that nothing appeared preconcerted or hostile—for, in most things, it is coldness which offends; while vivacity, on the contrary, has almost invariably an air of good-nature. Oswald found in Corinne a grace which he had never before met.
A terrible event of his life was associated with recollections of a very lovely and gifted Frenchwoman; but Corinne in no way resembled her. Every creature's best seemed united in the conversation he now partook. Ingeniously and rapidly as she twined its flowers, nothing was frivolous, nothing incomplete; such was her depth of feeling, and knowledge of the world, that he felt borne away, and lost in wonder, at qualities so contrasted. He asked himself, if it was from an all-embracing sensibility, or from a forgetfulness of each mood, as a new one succeeded, that she fled, almost in the same instant, "from grave to gay, from lively to severe," from learning that might have instructed men, to the coquetry of a woman who amused herself with making conquests; yet, in this very coquetry, there was such perfect nobleness, that it exacted as much respect as the most scrupulous reserve. The Prince Castel Forte, and all her other guests, paid her the most assiduous and delicate attention. The habitual homage with which they surrounded her gave the air of a fête to every day of her life. She was happy in being beloved, just as one is happy to breathe in a gentle clime, to hear harmonious sounds, and receive, in fact, none but agreeable impressions. Her lively and fluctuating countenance betrayed each emotion of her heart; but the deep and serious sentiment of love was not yet painted there. Oswald gazed on her in silence; his presence animated and inspired her with a wish to please. Nevertheless, she sometimes checked herself, in the midst of her most brilliant sallies, astonished at his external composure, and doubting whether he might not secretly blame her, or if his English notions could permit him to approve such success in a woman. He was, however, too fascinated to remember his former opinions on the obscurity which best becomes a female; but he asked himself, who could ever become dear to her? What single object could ever concentrate so many rays, or take captive a spirit gifted with such glorious wings? In truth, he was alike dazzled and distressed: nay, though, as she took leave, she politely invited him to visit her again, a whole day elapsed without his going to her house, restrained by a species of terror at the feeling which excited him. Sometimes he compared it with the fatal error of his early youth; but instantly rejected such comparison. Then it was by treacherous arts he had been subdued; and who could doubt the truth, the honor of Corinne? Were her spells those of poetry or of magic? Was she a Sappho or an Armida? It was impossible to decide. Yet it was evident, that not society, but Heaven itself, had formed this extraordinary being, whose mind was as inimitable as her character was unfeigned. "Oh, my father!" he sighed, "had you known Corinne, what would you have thought of her?"
[CHAPTER II.]
The Count d'Erfeuil called on Lord Nevil, as usual, next morning; and, censuring him for not having visited Corinne the preceding night, said gaily, "You would have been delighted if you had."—"And why?" asked his friend.—"Because yesterday gave me the most satisfactory assurance that you have extremely interested her."—"Still this levity? Do you not know that I neither can nor will endure it?"—"What you call levity is rather the readiness of my observation: have I the less reason, because my reason is active? You were formed to grace those blest patriarchal days when man had five centuries to live; but I warn you that we have retrenched four of them at least."—"Be it so! And what may you have discovered by these quickly matured observations of yours?"—"That Corinne is in love with you. Last evening when I went to her house, I was well enough received, of course; but her eyes were fixed on the door, to look whether you followed me. She attempted to speak of something else; but, as she happens to be a mighty natural young person, she presently, in all simplicity, asked why you were not with me?—I said because you would not come, and that you were a gloomy, eccentric animal: I'll spare you whatever I might have further said in your praise. 'He is pensive,' remarked Corinne; doubtless he has lost some one who was dear to him: for whom is he mourning?'—'His father, madame, though it is more than a year since his death; and, as the law of nature obliges us to survive our relations, I conclude that some more private cause exists for his long and settled melancholy.'—'Oh,' exclaimed she, 'I am far from thinking that griefs apparently the same act alike on all. The father of your friend, and your friend himself, were not, perhaps, men of the common order. I am greatly inclined to think so.' Her voice was so sweet, dear Oswald, as she uttered these words!"—"And are these all your proofs of her interest in me?"—"Why truly, with half of them T should make sure of being beloved; but since you will have better, you shall. I kept the strongest to come last. The Prince Castel Forte related the whole of your adventure at Ancona, without knowing that it was of you he spoke. He told the story with much fire, as far as I could judge, thanks to the two Italian lessons I have taken; but there are so many French words in all foreign languages, that one understands them, without the fatigue of learning. Besides, Corinne's face explained what I should not else have comprehended. 'Twas so easy to read the agitation of her heart: she would scarcely breathe, for fear of losing a single word; when she inquired if the name of this Englishman was known, her anxiety was such, that I could very well estimate the dread she suffered, lest any other name than yours should be pronounced in reply. Castel Forte confessed his ignorance; and Corinne, turning eagerly to me, cried, 'Am I not right, monsieur? was it not Lord Nevil?'—'Yes, madame,' said I, and then she melted into tears. She had not wept during the history: what was there in the name of its hero more affecting than the recital itself!"—"She wept?" repeated Oswald. "Ah, why was I not there?" then instantly checking himself, he cast down his eyes, and his manly face expressed the most delicate timidity. He hurriedly resumed the topic, lest d'Erfeuil should impair his sacred joy by one comment. "If the adventure at Ancona be worth the telling, its honor belongs to you, also, my dear Count."—"They certainly did speak of a most engaging Frenchman, who was with you, my Lord," rejoined d'Erfeuil, laughing; "but no one, save myself, paid any attention to that parenthesis. The lovely Corinne prefers you, doubtless believing that you would prove more faithful than I—this may not be the case—you may even cost her more pains than I should have done; but your very romantic women love trouble, therefore you will suit her exactly." Nevil smarted beneath each word; but what could he say? D'Erfeuil never argued; nay, he could not even listen with sufficient attention to alter his opinions: once uttered, he cared no more about them, and the best plan was to forget them, if possible, as quickly as he did himself.
[CHAPTER III.]
That evening Oswald reached the house of Corinne with entirely new sensations. He fancied that he might be expected. How entrancing that first beam of intelligence between one's self and the being we adore! ere memory contends the heart with hope, ere the eloquence of words has sought to depict our feelings. There is, in these first hours of love, some indefinite and mysterious charm, more fleeting, but more heavenly than even happiness itself.
Oswald found Corinne alone; this abashed him much. He could have gazed on her in the midst of her friends; but would fain have been in some way convinced of her preference, ere thus suddenly engaged in an interview which might chill her manner towards him; and, in that expectation, his own address became cold from very embarrassment. Whether she detected this, or that similar feelings made her desire to remove his restraint, she speedily inquired if he had yet seen any of the antiquities of Rome. "No."—"Then, how were you employed yesterday?" she asked, with a smile. "I passed the day at home. Since I came hither, I have seen but you, madame, or remained alone." She wished to speak of his conduct at Ancona, and began: "I learned last night—" here she paused, and then said, "but I will talk of that when our party has joined us." Lord Nevil had a dignity which intimidated Corinne; besides, she feared, in alluding to his noble behaviour, that she should betray too much emotion, and trusted to feel less before witnesses. Oswald was deeply touched by this reserve, and by the frankness with which she, unconsciously, disclosed its motive; but the more oppressed he became, the less could he explain himself. He hastily rose, and went to the window; then remembering that this action must be unintelligible to Corinne, he returned to his seat, without speaking; and, though she had more confidence than himself, his diffidence proved so contagious, that, to cover her abstraction, she ran her fingers over her harp and struck a few unconnected chords; these melodious sounds, though they increased the emotion of Oswald, lent him a slight degree of firmness. He dared to look on her; and who could do so, without being struck by the divine inspiration inthroned in her eyes? Reassured by the mildness which veiled their splendor, he might have spoken, had not Prince Castel Forte that instant entered the room. It, was not without a pang that he beheld Nevil tête-à-tête with Corinne; but he was accustomed to conceal his sensations; and that habit, which an Italian often unites with the most vehement passions, in him was rather the result of lassitude and natural gentleness. He had resigned the hope of being the first object of Corinne's regard; he was no longer young. He had just the wit, taste, and fancy, which varies, without disturbing one's existence; and felt it so needful for his life to pass every evening with Corinne, that, had she married, he would have conjured her husband to let him continue this routine; on which condition it would not have cost him much regret to see her united with another. The heart's disappointments are not, in Italy, aggravated by those of vanity. You meet some men jealous enough to stab their rivals, others sufficiently modest to accept the second place in the esteem of a woman whose company they enjoy; but you seldom find those who, rather than appear rejected, deny themselves the pleasure of keeping up a blameless intimacy. The dominion of society over self-love is scarcely known in the land. The Count d'Erfeuil and Corinne's wonted guests having assembled, the conversation turned on the talent for improvisation, which she had so gloriously displayed at the capitol; and she was asked what she thought of it herself. "It is so rare a thing," said Castel Forte, "to find a person at once susceptible of enthusiasm, and capable of analysis; endowed as an artist, yet gifted with so much self-knowledge, that we ought to implore her revelation of her own secret."—"The faculty of extemporizing," returned Corinne, "is not more extraordinary in southern tongues, than senatorial eloquence or lively repartee in other languages. I should even say that, unfortunately, it is easier for us to breathe impromptu verse than to speak well in prose, from which poetry differs so widely, that the first stanza, by their mere expressions, remove the poet from the sphere of his auditors, and thus command attention. It is not only to the sweetness of Italian, but to the emphatic vibration of its syllables, that we should attribute the influence of poetry amongst us. Italian has a musical charm, which confers delight by the very sound of its words, almost independent of ideas, though nearly all those words are so graphic, that they paint their own significations on the mind; you feel that but in the midst of the arts, and beneath a beauteous sky, could a language so melodious and highly colored, have had birth. It is, therefore, easier in Italy than anywhere else to mislead by speeches, unaided by depth or novelty of thought. Poetry, like all the fine arts, captivates the senses as much as the mind. Nevertheless, I venture to assert, that I never act the improvisatrice, unless beneath some real feeling, or some image which I believe original. I hope that I rely less than others on our bewitching tongue; on which, indeed, one may prelude at random, and bestow a vivid pleasure, solely by the charm of rhythm and of harmony."—"You think, then," said one of her friends, "that this genius for spontaneous verse does injury to our literature? I thought so too, till I heard you, who have entirety reversed my decision."—"I have said," returned Corinne, "that from this facility and abundance must result a vast quantity of indifferent poems; but I rejoice that such fruitfulness should exist in Italy, as I do to see our plains covered with a thousand superfluous productions. I pride in this bounty of Heaven. Above all, I love to find improvisatores among the common people; it shows that imagination of theirs which is hidden in all other circumstances, and only develops itself amongst us. It gives a poetic air to the humblest ranks of society, and spares us from the disgust we cannot help feeling, against what is vulgar in all classes. When our Sicilians, while rowing the traveller in their barks, lend their graceful dialect to an endearing welcome, or sing him a kind and long farewell, one might dream that the pure sea-breeze acted on man as on an Eolian harp; and that the one, like the other, echoed but the voice of nature. Another reason why I set this value on our talent for improvisation is, that it appears one which could not possibly survive among a community disposed to ridicule. Poets, who risk this perilous enterprise, require all the good-humor of a country in which men love to amuse themselves, without criticizing what amuses them. A single sneer would suffice to banish the presence of mind necessary for rapid and uninterrupted composition. Your heroes must warm with you, and their plaudits must be your inspiration."—"But, madame," said Oswald, who, till now, had gazed in silence on Corinne, "to which class of your poems do you give the preference—those that are the works of reflection, or such as were instantaneously inspired?"—"My Lord," replied Corinne, with a look of gentle deference, "I will make you my judge; but if you bid me examine my own heart, I should say that improvisation is, to me, like animated converse. I do not confine myself to such or such subjects, but yield to whatever produces that degree of interest in my hearers which most infects myself; and it is to my friends that I owe the greater portion of my talent in this line. Sometimes, while they speak on the noble questions that involve the moral condition of man—the aim and end of his duties here—mine impassioned excitement carries me beyond myself; teaches me to find in nature, and mine own heart, such daring truths, and forcible expressions, as solitary meditation could never have engendered. Mine enthusiasm, then, seems supernatural: a spirit speaks within me far greater than mine own; it often happens that I abandon the measure of verse to explain my thoughts in prose. Sometimes I quote the most applicable passages from the poets of other lands. Those divine apostrophes are mine, while my soul is filled by their import. Sometimes my lyre, by a simple national air, may complete the effect which flies from the control of words. In truth, I feel myself a poet, less when a happy choice of rhymes, of syllables, of figures, may dazzle my auditors, than when my spirit soars disdainful of all selfish baseness; when godlike deeds appear most easy to me, 'tis then my verse is at its best. I am, indeed, a poet while I admire or hate, not by my personal feelings, nor in mine own cause, but for the sake of human dignity, and the glory of the world!" Corinne, now perceiving how far she had been borne away, blushed, and, turning to Lord Nevil, said: "You see I cannot touch on any of the themes that affect me, without that kind of thrill which is the source of ideal beauty in the arts, of religion in the recluse, generosity in heroes, and disinterestedness among men. Pardon me, my Lord; such a woman little resembles those of your country."—"Who can resemble you?" replied Oswald; "and who shall make laws for a being so peculiar?"
The Count d'Erfeuil was actually spell-bound; without understanding all she said, her gestures, voice, and manner, charmed him. It was the first time that any, save French graces, had moved him thus. But, to say truth, the popularity of Corinne aided and sanctioned his judgment; so that he might rave of her without relinquishing his convenient habit of being guided by the opinion of others. As they left the house together, he said to his friend: "Confess, now, dear Oswald, that I have some merit in not paying my court to so delightful a person."—"But," replied Nevil, "they say that she is difficult to please."—"They say, but I don't believe it. A single woman, who leads the life of an artist, can't be difficult to please." Nevil's feelings were wounded by this remark; but whether d'Erfeuil saw it not, or was resolved to follow the bent of his own inclinations, he continued, "Not but, if I could believe in any woman's virtue, I should trust hers above all. She has certainly a thousand times more ardor than were required in your country, or even in mine, to create doubts of a lady's cruelty; yet she is a creature of such superior tact and information, that the ordinary rules for judging her sex cannot be applied to her. Would you believe it? I find her manners imposing; they overawe me in spite of her careless affability. I wished yesterday, merely out of gratitude for her interest in you, to hazard a few words on my own account; such as make what way they can; if they are listened to, so much the better; if not, why that may be luckier still; but Corinne looked on me coldly, and I was altogether disconcerted. Is it not absurd to feel out of countenance before an Italian, a poet, an—everything that ought to put a man at his ease?"—"Her name is unknown," replied Nevil, "but her behavior assures us that she is highly born."—"Nay, 'tis only the fashion of romance to conceal one's nobility;—in real life, people tell everything that can do themselves credit, and even a little more than the truth."—"Yes, in some societies, where they think but of the effect produced on others; but here, where life is more domestic, here there may be secrets, which only he who marries Corinne should seek to fathom."—"Marry Corinne!" replied d'Erfeuil, laughing vehemently, "such a notion never entered my head. My dear Nevil, if you will commit extravagances, let them be such as are not irreparable. In marriage, one should consult nothing but convenience and decorum. You think me frivolous; nevertheless, I'll bet you that my conduct shall be more rational than your own."—"I don't doubt it," returned Nevil, without another word; for how could he tell the Count that there is often much selfishness in frivolity? or that vanity never leads a man towards the error of sacrificing himself for another? Triflers are very capable of cleverly directing their own affairs; for, in all that may be called the science of policy, in private as in public life, men oftener succeed by the absence of certain qualities than by any which they possess.
A deficiency of enthusiasm, opinions, and sensibility, is a negative treasure, on which, with but slight abilities, rank and fortune may easily be acquired or maintained. The jests of d'Erfeuil had pained Lord Nevil much; he condemned them, but still they haunted him most importunately.