ON ITALIAN CHARACTER AND MANNERS.
[CHAPTER I.]
Oswald's irresolution, augmented by misfortunes, taught him to fear every irrevocable engagement. He dared not ask Corinne her name or story, though his love for her grew each day more strong; he could not look on her without emotion; hardly, in the midst of society, quit her side for an instant; she said not a word he did not feel, nor expressed a sentiment, sad or gay, that was not reflected in his face. Yet, loving, admiring her as he did, he forgot not how little such a wife would accord with English habits; how much she differed from the idea his father formed of the woman it would become him to marry; all he said to Corinne was restrained by the disquiet these reflections caused him. She perceived this but too plainly; yet so much would it have cost her to break with him, that she lent herself to whatever could prevent a decisive explanation; and, never possessing much forethought, revelled in the present, such as it was, not dreaming of the inevitable future. She entirely secluded herself from the world in this devotion to him; but, at last, hurt by his silence on their prospects, she resolved to accept a pressing invitation to a ball. Nothing is more common, in Rome, than for persons to leave and return to society by fits; there is so little gossip in Italy, that people do what they like, without comment, at least without obstacle, in affairs either of love or ambition. Foreigners are as safe as natives in this rendezvous of Europeans. When Nevil learned that Corinne was going to a ball, he was out of humor; for some time he had fancied that he detected in her a melancholy sympathetic with his own; yet suddenly she appeared to think of nothing but dancing (in which she so much excelled), and the eclat of a fête. Corinne was not frivolous; but, feeling every day more subdued by love, she wished to combat its force. She knew by experience that reflection and forbearance have less power over impassioned characters than dissipation; and she thought that, if unable to triumph over herself as she ought, the next best step were to do as she could. When Nevil censured her intentions, she replied, "I want to ascertain whether what formerly pleased can still amuse me, or whether my regard for you is to absorb every other interest of my life."—"You would fain cease to love me," he said. "Not so," she replied; "but it is only in domestic life that it can be agreeable to feel one's self lorded over by a single affection. To me, who need my wit and genius to sustain the reputation of the life I have adopted, it is a great misfortune to love as I love you."—"You will not sacrifice your glory to me, then?" cried Oswald.—"Of what importance were it to you," she replied, "if I did? Since we are not destined for each other, I must not forever destroy the kind of happiness with which I ought to content myself." Lord Nevil said nothing; conscious that he could not now speak without explaining his designs; and, in truth, he was ignorant of them himself. He sighed, and reluctantly followed Corinne to the ball. It was the first time, since his loss, that he had gone to such an assembly. Its tumult so oppressed him that he remained for some period in a hall beside the dancing-room, with his head reclined upon his hand; not even wishing to see Corinne dance. All music, even if its occasion be a gay one, renders us pensive. The Count d'Erfeuil arrived, enchanted with the crowd and amusements, which once more reminded him of France. "I've done my best," he said, "to interest myself in their vaunted ruins, but I see nothing in them; 'tis a mere prejudice, this fuss about rubbish covered with briers! I shall speak my mind when I return to France; for it is high time that the farce should be ended. There is not a single building of to-day in good repair, that is not worth all these trunks of pillars, and mouldy bas-reliefs, which can only be admired through the spectacles of pedantry. A rapture which one must purchase by study cannot be very vivid in itself. One needs not spoil one's complexion over musty books, to appreciate the sights of Paris."
Lord Nevil was silent, and d'Erfeuil questioned him on his opinion of Rome. "A ball is not the place for serious conversation," said Oswald; "and you know that I can afford you no other."—"Mighty fine," replied the Count. "I own I am gayer than you; but who can say that I am not wiser too? Trust me, there is much philosophy in taking the world as it goes."—"Perhaps you are right," answered Oswald; "but, as you are what you are by nature, and not by reflection, your manner of living can belong to no one but yourself."
D'Erfeuil now heard the name of Corinne from the ball-room, and went to learn what was doing there. Nevil followed him to the door, and saw the handsome Neapolitan Prince Amalfi soliciting her to dance the Tarantula with him. All her friends joined in this request. She waited for no importunity, but promised with a readiness which astonished d'Erfeuil, accustomed as he was to the refusals with which it is the fashion to precede consent. In Italy these airs are unknown; there, every one is simple enough to believe that he cannot better please society than by promptly fulfilling whatever it requires. Corinne would have introduced this natural manner, if she had not found it there. The dress she had assumed was light and elegant. Her locks were confined by a silken fillet, and her eyes expressed an animation which rendered her more attractive than ever. Oswald was uneasy; displeased with his own subjection to charms whose existence he was inclined to deplore, as, far from wishing to gratify him, it was almost in order to escape from his power that Corinne shone forth thus enchantingly; yet, who could resist her seducing grace? Even in scorn she would have been still triumphant; but scorn was not in her disposition. She perceived her lover; and blushed, as she bestowed on him one of her sweetest smiles. The Prince Amalfi accompanied himself with castanets. Corinne saluted the assembly with both hands; then, turning, took the tambourine, which her partner presented to her, and she beat time as she danced. Her gestures displayed that easy union of modesty and voluptuousness, such as must have so awed the Indians when the Bayardères—poets of the dance—depicted the various passions by characteristic attitudes. Corinne was so well acquainted with antique painting and sculpture, that her positions were so many studies for the votaries of art. Now she held her tambourine above her head; sometimes advanced it with one hand, while the other ran over its little bells with a dexterous rapidity that brought to mind the girls of Herculaneum.[1] This was not French dancing, remarkable for the difficulty of its steps; it was a movement more allied to fancy and to sentiment. The air to which she danced, pleased alternately by its softness and its precision. Corinne as thoroughly infected the spectators with her own sensations as she did while extemporizing poetry, playing on her lyre, or designing an expressive group. Everything was language for her. The musicians, in gazing on her, felt all the genius of their art; and every witness of this magic was electrified by impassioned joy, transported into an ideal world, there to dream of bliss unknown below.
There is a part of the Neapolitan dance where the heroine kneels, while the hero marches round her, like a conqueror. How dignified looked Corinne at that moment! What a sovereign she was on her knees! and when she rose, clashing her airy tambourine, she appeared animated by such enthusiasm of youthful beauty, that one might have thought she needed no life but her own to make her happy. Alas, it was not thus! though Oswald feared it, and sighed as if her every success separated her farther from him. When the Prince, in his turn knelt to Corinne, she, if possible, surpassed herself. Twice or thrice she fled round him, her sandalled feet skimming the floor with the speed of lightning; and when shaking her tambourine above his head with one hand, she signed with the other for him to rise, every man present was tempted to prostrate himself before her, except Lord Nevil, who drew back some paces, and d'Erfeuil, who made a step or two forwards, in order to compliment Corinne. The Italians gave way to what they felt, without one fear of making themselves remarkable. They were not like men so accustomed to society, and the self-love which it excites, as to think on the effect they might produce; they are never to be turned from their pleasures by vanity, nor from their purposes by applause.
Corinne, charmed with the result of her attempt, thanked her friends with amiable simplicity. She was satisfied, and permitted her content to be seen, with childlike candor; her greatest desire was to get through the crowd to the door, against which Oswald was leaning. She reached it at last, and paused for him to speak. "Corinne," he said, endeavoring to conceal both his delight and his distress, "you have extorted universal homage: but is there, among all your adorers, one brave, one trusty friend; one protector for life? or can the clamors of flattery suffice a soul like yours?"
[1] The dancing of Madame Récamier gave me the idea which I endeavored to express. This celebrated beauty, in the midst of afflictions, displayed so touching a resignation, so total a forgetfulness of self, that her moral qualities seem as extraordinary as her personal grace.
[CHAPTER II.]
The press of company prevented Corinne's reply: they were going to supper; and each cavaliér servénte hastened to seat himself beside his lady. A fair stranger arrived and found no room; yet not a man, save Oswald and d'Erfeuil, rose to offer her his place. Not that the Romans were either rude or selfish; but they believed that their honor depended on their never quitting their post of duty. Some, unable to gain seats, leaned behind their mistresses' chairs, ready to obey the slightest sign. The females spoke but to their lovers: strangers wandered in vain around a circle where no one had a word to spare them; for Italian women are ignorant of that coquetry which renders a love affair nothing more than the triumph of self-conceit; they wish to please no eyes save those that are dear to them. The mind is never misled before the heart. The most abrupt commencements are often followed by sincere devotion, and even by lasting constancy. Infidelity is more censured in man than in woman. Three or four men, beneath different titles, may follow the same beauty, who takes them with her everywhere, sometimes without troubling herself to name them to the master of the house which receives the party. One is the favorite; another aspires to be so; a third calls himself the sufferer (il patíto); though disdained, he is permitted to be of use; all the rivals live peaceably together. It is only among the common people that you still hear of the stiletto; but the whole country presents a wild mixture of simpleness and of vice, dissimulation and truth, good-nature and revenge, strength and weakness; justifying the remark, that the best of these qualities may be found among those who will do nothing for vanity; the worst among such as will do anything for interest; whether the interest of love, of avarice, or ambition. Distinctions of rank are generally disregarded in Italy. It is not from stoicism, but from heedless familiarity, that men are here insensible to aristocratic prejudices; constituting themselves judges of no one, they admit everybody. After supper they sat down to play; some of the women at hazard, others chose silent whist; and not a word was now uttered in the apartment, so noisy just before. The people of the south often run thus quickly from the extreme of agitation to that of repose; it is one of the peculiarities of their character, that indolence is succeeded by activity: indeed, in all respects they are the last men on whose merits or defects we ought to decide at first sight; so contrasted are the qualities they unite; the creatures all prudence to-day may be all audacity to-morrow. They are often apathetic, from just having made, or preparing to make, some great exertion. In fact, they waste not one energy of their minds on society, but hoard them till called forth by strong events. At this assembly many persons lost enormous sums, without the slightest change of countenance; yet the same beings could not have related a trivial anecdote without the most lively and expressive gesticulation. But when the passions have attained a certain degree of violence, they shrink from sight and veil themselves in silence.
Nevil could not surmount the bitter feelings this ball engendered; he believed that the Italians had weaned his love from him at least for a time. He was very wretched; yet his pride prevented his evincing aught beyond a contempt for the tributes offered her. When asked to play he refused, as did Corinne, who beckoned him to sit beside her; he feared to compromise her name by passing a whole evening alone with her before the eyes of the world. "Be at ease on that head," she replied; "no one thinks about us. Here no established etiquette exacts respect; a kindly politeness is all that is required; no one wishes to annoy or to be annoyed. 'Tis true that we have not here what in England is called liberty; but our social independence is perfect."—"That is," said Oswald, "that no reverence is paid to appearances."—"At least, here is no hypocrisy," she answered.—"Rochefoucault says: 'The least among the defects of a woman of gallantry is that of being one;' but whatever be the faults of Italian women, deceit does not conceal them; and if marriage vows are not held sufficiently sacred, they are broken by mutual consent."—"It is not sincerity that causes this kind of frankness," replied Oswald, "but indifference to public opinion. I brought hither an introduction to a princess, and gave it to the servant I had hired here, who said to me: 'Ah, sir, just now, this will do no service, the princess sees no one; she is innamoráta.' Thus was the fact of a lady's being in love proclaimed like any other domestic affair. Nor is this publicity excused by fidelity to one passion: many attachments succeed each other, all equally known. Women have so little mystery in these ties, that they speak of them with less embarrassment than our brides could talk of their husbands. It is not easy to believe that any deep or refined affection can exist with this shameless fickleness. Though nothing is thought of but love, here can be no romance: adventures are so rapid, and so open, that nothing is left to be developed; and, justly to describe the general method of arranging these things, one ought to begin and end in the first chapter. Corinne, pardon me if I give you pain. You are an Italian; that should disarm me: but one reason why you are thus incomparable is, that you unite the best characteristics of our different nations. I know not where you were educated, but you certainly cannot have passed all your life here: perhaps, it was in England. Ah, if so, how could you leave that sanctuary of all that is modest, for a land where not only virtue, but love itself is so little understood! It may be breathed in the air, but does it reach the heart? The poetry, here, in which love plays so great a part, is full of brilliant pictures, indeed; but where will you find the melancholy tenderness of our bards? What have you to compare with the parting of Jaffier and Belvidera, with Romeo and Juliet, or with the lines in Thomson's Spring, depicting the happiness of wedded life? Is there any such life in Italy? and, without homefelt felicity, how can love exist? Is not happiness the aim of the heart, as pleasure is that of the senses? Would not all young and lovely women be alike to us, did not mental qualities decide our preference? What then, do these qualities teach us to crave? an intercourse of thought and feeling, permanent and undivided! This is what we mean by marriage. Illegitimate love, when, unhappily, it does occur among us, is still but the reflex of marriage. The same comfort is sought abroad which cannot be found at home; and even infidelity in England is more moral than Italian matrimony."
This severity so afflicted Corinne that she rose, her eyes filled with tears, and hurried home. Oswald was in despair at having offended her; but the irritation this ball had dealt him, found a channel in the censure he had just pronounced. He followed her; but she would not see him. Next morning he made another attempt; but her door was still closed. This was out of character in Corinne; but she was so dismayed by his opinion of her countrywomen, that she resolved, if possible, to conceal her affection from him forever. Oswald, on his part, was confirmed by this unusual conduct in the discontent that unlucky fête had engendered; he was excited to struggle against the sentiment whose empire he dreaded. His principles were strict.
Corinne's manners sometimes evinced a too universal wish to please; her conduct and carriage were noble and reserved; but her opinions were over-indulgent. In fact, though dazzled and enervated, something still combatted his weakness. Such a state often embitters our language; we are displeased with ourselves and others; we suffer so much, that we long to brave the worst at once, and, by open war, ascertain which of our two formidable emotions is to triumph. It was in this mood that he wrote to Corinne. He knew his letter was angry and unbecoming; yet a confusion of impulses urged him to send it. He was so miserable in his present situation, that he longed, at any price, for some change; and was reckless how his doubts were answered, so that they came to a termination. A rumor brought him by Count d'Erfeuil, though he believed it not, contributed, perhaps, to render his style still more unkind. It was said that Corinne was about to marry Prince Amalfi. Oswald well knew that she did not love this man, and ought to have been sure that the report sprung merely from her having danced with him; but he persuaded himself that she had received Amalfi when denied to him; therefore, though too proud to confess his personal jealousy, he vented it on the people in whose favor he knew her to be so prepossessed.
[CHAPTER III.]
"TO CORINNE.
"January 24, 1795.
"You refuse to see me; you are offended by my last conversation, and, no doubt, intend henceforth to admit none but your countrymen, and thus expiate your recent deviation from that rule. Yet, far from repenting the sincerity with which I spoke to you, whom, perhaps chimerically, I would fain consider an Englishwoman, I will dare to say, still more plainly, that you can preserve neither your own dignity nor your own peace, by choosing a husband from your present society. I know not one Italian who deserves you; not one who could honor you by his alliance, whatever were the title he had to bestow. The men are far less estimable here than the women, to whose errors they add worse of their own. Would you persuade me that these sons of the South, who so carefully avoid all trouble, and live but for enjoyment, can be capable of love? Did you not, last month, see at the Opera a man who had not eight days before lost a wife he was said to adore? The memory of the dead, the thought of death itself, is here, as much as possible, thrown aside. Funeral ceremonies are performed by the priests, as the duties of love are fulfilled by cavaliéres servéntes. Custom has prescribed all rites beforehand: regret and enthusiasm are nothing. But what, above all, must be destructive to love, is the fact that your men cannot be respected; women give them no credit for submission, because they found them originally weak, and destitute of all serious employment. It is requisite, for the perfection of natural and social order, that men should protect, and women be protected; but by guardians adoring the weakness they defend, and worshipping the gentle divinity which, like the Penates of the ancients, calls down good fortune on the house. Here one might almost say that woman is the sultan, and men her seraglio; it is they who have most pliancy and softness. An Italian proverb says: 'Who knows not how to feign, knows not how to live,' Is not that a feminine maxim? but where you have neither military glory nor free institutions, how should men acquire strength and majesty of mind? Their wit degenerates into a kind of cleverness, with which they play the game of life like a match at chess, wherein success is everything. All that remains of their love for antiquity consists in exaggerated expressions and external grandeur; but, beside this baseless greatness, you often find the most vulgar tastes, the most miserably neglected homes. Is this, then, Corinne, the country you prefer? Is its boisterous applause so essential to you, that every other kind of destiny would seem dull, compared with these re-echoing brávos? Who could hope to make you happy, in tearing you from this tumult? You are an incomprehensible person: deep in feeling, superficial in taste; independent by pride of soul, enslaved by a desire for dissipation; capable of loving but one, yet requiring the notice of all the world. You are a sorceress, who alternately disturb and reassure me; who, when most sublime, can at once descend from the region where you reign alone, to lose yourself among the herd. Corinne, Corinne! in loving you, it is impossible to avoid fearing and doubting too.
OSWALD."
Indignant as Corinne felt at Nevil's antipathy to her country, she was relieved by guessing that the fête, and her refusal to speak with him, had ruffled his temper. She hesitated, or believed herself hesitating, for some time, as to the line of conduct she ought to pursue. Love made her sigh for his presence: yet she could not brook his supposing that she wished to be his wife; though in fortune, at least, his equal, and no way beneath him in name, if she deigned to reveal it. The uncontrolled life she had chosen, might have given her some aversion to marriage; and, certainly, had not her attachment blinded her to all the pangs she must endure in espousing an Englishman, and renouncing Italy, she would have repulsed such an idea with disdain. A woman may forget her pride in all that concerns the heart: but when worldly interest appears the obstacle to inclinations; when the person beloved can be accused of sacrificing himself in his union, she can no longer abandon herself to her feelings before him. Corinne, however, unable to break with her lover, trusted that she still might meet him, yet conceal her affection. It was in this belief that she determined on replying only to his accusations of the Italians, and reasoning on them as if interested by no other subject. Perhaps the best way in which such a woman can regain her coldness and her dignity, is that of entrenching herself in the fortress of her mental superiority.
"TO LORD NEVIL.
"Jan. 25, 1795.
"If your letter concerned no one but me, my Lord, I should not attempt to justify myself. My character is so easily known, that he who cannot comprehend it intuitively, would not be enlightened by any explanation I could give. The virtuous reserve of Englishwomen, and the more artful graces of the French, often conceal one half of what passes in their bosoms; and what you are pleased to call magic in me, is nothing but an unconstrained disposition, which permits my varying, my inconsistent thoughts to be heard, without my taking the pains of bringing them into tune. Such harmony is nearly always factitious; for most genuine characters are heedlessly confiding. But it is not of myself that I would speak to you; it is of the unfortunate nation which you attack so cruelly. Can my regard for my friends have instilled this bitter malignity? You know me too well to be jealous of them: nor have I the vanity to suppose that any such sentiment has rendered you thus unjust. You say but what all foreigners say of the Italians, what must strike every one at first; but you should look deeper ere you thus sentence a people once so great. Whence came it that, in the Roman day, they were the most military in the world; during the republics of the Middle Ages, the most tenacious of their freedom; and, in the sixteenth century, the most illustrious for literature, science, and the arts? Has not Italy pursued fame in every shape? If it be lost to her now, blame her political situation; since, in other circumstances, she showed herself so unlike all she is. I may be wrong, but the faults of the Italians only enhance my pity for their fate. Strangers, from time to time, have conquered and distracted this fair land, the object of their perpetual ambition; yet strangers forever reproach her natives with the defects inevitable to a vanquished race.
"Europe owes her learning, her accomplishments, to the Italians; and, having turned their own gifts against them, would gladly deny them the only glory left to a people deprived of martial power and public liberty. It is true that governments form the characters of nations; and, in Italy herself, you will find remarkable distinctions between the inhabitants of different states. The Piedmontese, who once formed a small national corps, have a more warlike spirit than the rest. The Florentines, who have mostly possessed either freedom or liberal rulers, are well-educated and well-mannered. The Venetians and the Genoese evince a capacity for politics, because they have a republican aristocracy. The Milanese are more sincere, thanks to their long intercourse with northern nations. The Neapolitans are prompt to rebel, having for ages lived beneath an imperfect government, but still one of their own. The Roman nobles have nothing to do, either diplomatic or military, and may well remain idly ignorant; but the ecclesiastics, whose career is definite, have faculties far more developed; and, as the papal law observes no distinction of birth, but is purely elective in its ordinance of the clergy, the result is, a species of liberality, not in ideas, but in habits, which renders Rome the most agreeable abode for those who have neither power nor emulation for sustaining a part in the world. The people of the South are more easily modified by existing institutions than those of the North. This clime induces a languor favorable to resignation, and nature offers enough to console man for the advantages society denies. Undoubtedly, there is much corruption in Italy: its civilization is far from refinement. There is a savage wilderness beneath Italian cunning; it is that of a hunter lying in wait for his prey. Indolent people easily become sly and shifting; their natural gentleness serves to hide even a fit of rage; for it is by our habitual manner that an accidental change of feeling may be best concealed. Yet Italians have both truth and constancy in their private connections. Interest may sway them, but not pride. Here is no ceremony, no fashion; none of the little everyday tricks for creating a sensation. The usual sources of artifice and of envy exist not here. Foes and rivals are deceived by those who consider themselves at war with them; but, while in peace, they act with honesty and candor. This is the very cause of your complaint. Our women hear of nothing but love; they live in an atmosphere of seduction and dangerous example; yet their frankness lends an innocence to gallantry itself. They have no fear of ridicule: many are so ignorant that they cannot even write, and confess it without scruple. They engage a Paglietto to answer letters for them, which he does on paper large enough for a petition; but among the better classes you see professors from the academies in their black scarfs, giving lessons publicly. If you are inclined to laugh at them, they ask you: 'Is there any harm in understanding Greek, or living by our own exertions? How can you deride so matter-of-course a proceeding?' Dare I, my Lord, touch on a more delicate subject?—the reason why our men so seldom display a military spirit. They readily expose their lives for love or hate: in such causes, the wounds given and received neither astonish nor alarm their witnesses. Fearless of death, when natural passions command them to defy it; they still, I must confess, value life above the political interests which slightly affect those who can scarcely be said to have a country. Chivalrous honor has little influence over a people among whom the opinions that nourish it are dead; naturally enough, in such a disorganization of public affairs, women gain a great ascendency; perhaps too much so for them to respect or admire their lovers, who, nevertheless, treat them with the most delicate devotion. Domestic virtue constitutes the welfare and the pride of Englishwomen; but on no land, where love dispenses with its sacred bonds, is the happiness of women watched over as in Italy. If our men cannot make a moral code for immorality, they are at least just and generous in their participation of cares and duties. They consider themselves more culpable than their mistresses when they break their chains: they know that women make the heaviest sacrifice; and believe that, before the tribunal of the heart, the greatest criminals are those who have done most wrong. Men err from selfishness; women, because they are weak. Where society is at once vigorous and corrupt, that is, most merciless to the faults that are followed by the worst misfortunes, women of course are used with more severity; but where we have no established etiquettes, natural charity has a greater power. Spite all that has been said of Italian perfidy, I will assert that there is as much real good-nature here as in any other country of the world; and that, slandered as it is by strangers, they will nowhere meet with a kinder reception. Italians are reproached as flatterers; it is with no premeditated plan, but in mere eagerness to please, that they lavish expressions of affection, not often belied by their conduct. Would they be ever-faithful friends, if called on to prove so in danger or adversity?—A very small number, I allow, might be capable of such friendship; but it is not to Italy alone that this observation is applicable. I have previously admitted their Oriental indolence. Yet the very women, who appear like so many beauties of a harem, may surprise you by traits of generosity or of revenge: as for the men, give them but an object, and, in six months, you might find that they would have learned and understood whatever was required of them; but, while they are untaught, why should females be instructed? An Italian girl would soon become worthy of an intelligent husband, provided that she loved him; but in a country where all great interests are suppressed, a careless repose is more noble than a vain agitation about trifles. Literature itself must languish, where thoughts are not renewed by vigorous and varied action. Yet in what land have arts and letters been more worshipped? History shows us, that the popes, princes, and people have at all times done homage to distinguished painters, sculptors, poets, and other writers.[1] This zeal was, I own, my Lord, one of the first motives which attached me to this country. I did not find here those seared imaginations, that discouraging spirit, nor that despotic mediocrity, which, elsewhere, can so soon stifle innate ability. Here a felicitous phrase takes fire, as it were, among its auditors. As genius is the gift which ranks highest among us, it inevitably excites much envy. Peregolese was assassinated: Giorgione wore a cuirass, when obliged to paint in any public place; but the violent jealousy to which talent gives birth here, is such as in other realms is created by power; it seeks not to depreciate the object it can hate, or even kill, from the very fanaticism of admiration. Finally, when we see so much life in a circle so contracted, in the midst of so many obstacles and oppressions, we can hardly forbear from a vivid solicitude for those who respire with such avidity the little air that fancy breathes through the boundaries which confine them. These are so limited, that men of our day can rarely acquire the pride and firmness which mark those of freer and more military states. I will even confess, if you desire it, my Lord, that such a national character must inspire a woman with more enthusiasm; but is it not possible that a man may be brave, honorable, nay, unite all the attributes which can teach us to love, without possessing those that might promise us content?
"CORINNE."
[1] Mr. Roscoe, author of the "History of the Medici," has since published that of Leo X., which recounts the proofs of admiring esteem given by the princes and people of Italy to men of letters; impartially adding, that many of the popes have emulated this liberality.
[CHAPTER IV.]
This letter revived all Oswald's remorse at having even thought of detaching himself from his love. The commanding intellectual mildness of its reproof affected him deeply. A superiority so vast, so real, yet so simple, appeared to him out of all ordinary rule. He was never insensible that this was not the tender creature his fancy had chosen for the partner of his life: all he remembered of Lucy Edgarmond, at twelve years of age, better accorded with that ideal. But who could be compared with Corinne? She was a miracle formed by nature, in his behalf, he dared believe; since he might flatter himself that he was dear to her. Yet what would be his prospects if he declared his inclination to make her his wife? Such, he thought, would be his decision; yet the idea that her past life had not been entirely irreproachable, and that such a union would assuredly have been condemned by his father, again overwhelmed him with painful anxiety. He was not so subdued by grief as he had been ere he met Corinne; but he no longer felt the calm which may accompany repentance, when a whole life is devoted to expiate our faults. Formerly, he did not fear yielding to his saddest memories, but now he dreaded the meditations which revealed to him the secrets of his heart. He was preparing to seek Corinne, to thank her for her letter, and obtain pardon for his own, when his apartment was suddenly entered by Mr. Edgarmond, the young Lucy's near relation.
This gentleman had lived chiefly on his estate in Wales; he possessed just the principles and the prejudice that serve to keep things as they are; and this is an advantage where things are as well arranged as human reason permits. In such a case, the partisans of established order, even though stubbornly bigoted to their own ways of thinking, deserve to be regarded as rational and enlightened men.
Lord Nevil shuddered as this name was announced. All the past seemed to rise before him in an instant; and his next idea was, that Lady Edgarmond, the mother of Lucy, had charged her kinsman with reproaches. This thought restored his self-command; he received his countryman with excessive coldness; though not a single aim of the good man's journey concerned our hero. He was travelling for his health, exercising himself in the chase, and drinking "Success to King George and old England!" He was one of the best fellows in the world, with more wit and education than would have been supposed; ultra-English, even on points where it would have been advisable to be less so; keeping up, in all countries, the habit of his own, and avoiding their natives, not from contempt, but a reluctance to speak in foreign tongues, and a timidity which, at the age of fifty, rendered him extremely shy of new acquaintance.
"I am delighted to see you," he said to Nevil. "I go to Naples in a fortnight: shall I find you there? I wish I may! having but little time to stay in Italy, as my regiment embarks shortly." "Your regiment!" repeated Oswald, coloring, not that he had forgotten that, having a year's leave of absence, his presence would not be so soon required; but he blushed to think that Corinne might banish even duty from his mind. "Your corps," continued Mr. Edgarmond, "will leave you more leisure for the quiet necessary to restore your strength. Just before I left England, I saw a little cousin of mine in whom you are interested: she is a charming girl! and, by the time you return, next year, I don't doubt that she will be the finest woman in England." Nevil was silent, and Mr. Edgarmond too. For some time after this, they addressed each other very laconically, though with kind politeness, and the guest rose to depart; but, turning from the door, said, abruptly, "Apropos, my Lord, you can do me a favor, I am told that you know the celebrated Corinne; and, though I generally shrink from foreigners, I am really curious to see her." "I will ask her permission to take you to her house, then," replied Oswald. "Do, I beg: let me see her, some day when she extemporises, dances, and sings." "Corinne," returned Nevil, "does not thus display her accomplishments before strangers: she is every way your equal and mine." "Forgive my mistake," cried his friend; "but as she is merely called Corinne, and, at six-and-twenty, lives unprotected by any one of her family, I thought that she subsisted by her talents, and might gladly seize any opportunity of making them known." "Her fortune is independent," replied Oswald, hastily; "her mind still more so." Mr. Edgarmond regretted that he had mentioned her, seeing that the topic interested Lord Nevil.
No people on earth deal more considerately with true affections than do the English. He departed; Oswald remained alone, exclaiming to himself: "I ought to marry Corinne! I must secure her against future misinterpretation. I will offer her the little I can, rank and name, in return for the felicity which she alone can grant me." In this mood, full of hope and love, he hastened to her house: yet, by a natural impulse of diffidence, began by reassuring himself with conversation on indifferent themes: among them was the request of Mr. Edgarmond. She was evidently discomposed by that name, and, in a trembling voice, refused his visit. Oswald was greatly astonished. "I should have thought that with you, who receive so much company," he said, "the title of my friend would be no motive for exclusion."—"Do not be offended, my Lord," she said; "believe me, I must have powerful reasons for denying any wish of yours."—"Will you tell me those reasons?" he asked. "Impossible!" she answered. "Be it so, then," he articulated. The vehemence of his feelings checked his speech; he would have left her, but Corinne, through her tears, exclaimed in English: "For God's sake stay, if you would not break my heart!"
These words and accents thrilled Nevil to the soul; he reseated himself at some distance from her, leaning his head against an alabaster vase, and murmuring: "Cruel woman! you see I love you, and am twenty times a day ready to offer you my hand; yet you will not tell me who you are, Corinne! Tell me now!"—"Oswald," she sighed, "you know not how you pain me: were I rash enough to obey, you would cease to love me."—"Great God!" he cried, "what have you to reveal?"—"Nothing that renders me unworthy of you: but do not exact it. Some day, perhaps, when you love me better—if—ah! I know not what I say—you shall know all, but do not abandon me unheard. Promise it in the name of your now sainted father!"
"Name him not!" raved Oswald. "Know you if he would unite or part us? If you believe he would consent, say so, and I shall surmount this anguish. I will one day tell you the sad story of my life; but now, behold the state to which you have reduced me!"
Cold dews stood on his pale brow; his trembling lips could utter no more. Corinne seated herself beside him; and, holding his hands in hers tenderly, recalled him to himself. "My dear Oswald?" she said, ask Mr. Edgarmond if he was ever in Northumberland; or, at least, if he has been there only within the last five years: if so, you may bring him hither." Oswald gazed fixedly on her; she cast down her eyes in silence. "I will do what you desire," he said, and departed. Secluded in his chamber, he exhausted his conjectures on the secrets of Corinne. It appeared evident that she had passed some time in England, and that her family name must be known there! but what was her motive for concealment, and why had she left his country? He was convinced that no stain could attach to her life; but he feared that a combination of circumstances might have made her seem blamable in the eyes of others. He was armed against the disapprobation of every country save England. The memory of his father was so entwined with that of his native land, that each sentiment strengthened the other. Oswald learned from Edgarmond that he had visited Northumberland for the first time a year ago; and therefore promised to introduce him at Corinne's that evening. He was the first to arrive there, in order to warn her against the misconceptions of his friend, and beg her, by a cold reserve of manner, to show him how much he was deceived.
"If you permit me," she observed, "I would rather treat him as I do every one else. If he wishes to hear the improvisatrice, he shall; I will show myself to him such as I am; for I think he will as easily perceive my rightful pride through this simple conduct, as if I behaved with an affected constraint."—"You are right, Corinne," said Oswald: "how wrong were he who would attempt to change you from your admirable self!" The rest of the party now joined them. Nevil placed himself near his love, with an added air of deference, rather to command that of others than to satisfy himself; he had soon the joy of finding this effort needless! She captivated Edgarmond, not only by her charms and conversation, but by inspiring that esteem which sterling characters, however contrasted, naturally feel for each other; and when he ventured on asking her to extemporise for him, he aspired to this honor with the most revering earnestness. She consented without delay; for she knew how to give her favors a value beyond that of difficult attainment. She was anxious to please the countryman of Nevil—a man whose report of her ought to have some weight—but these thoughts occasioned her so sudden a tremor, that she knew not how to begin. Oswald, grieved that she should not shine her best before an Englishman, turned away his eyes, in obvious embarrassment; and Corinne, thinking of no one but himself, lost all her presence of mind; nor ideas, nor even words, were at her call; and, suddenly giving up the attempt, she said to Mr. Edgarmond, "Forgive me, sir; fear robs me of all power. 'Tis the first time, my friends know, that I was ever thus beside myself; but," she added, with a sigh, "it may not be the last."
Till now, Oswald had seen her genius triumph over her affections; but now feeling had entirely subdued her mind; yet so identified was he with her glory, that he suffered beneath this failure, instead of enjoying it. Certain, however, that she would excel on a future interview with his friend, he gave himself up to the sweet pledge of his own power which he had just received; and the image of his beloved reigned more securely in his heart than ever.