ON THE CARNIVAL, AND ITALIAN MUSIC.
[CHAPTER I.]
The last day of the carnival is the gayest in the year. The Roman populace carry their rage for amusements to a perfect fever, unexampled elsewhere. The whole town is disguised; the very gazers from its windows are masked. This begins regularly to the appointed day, neither public nor private affairs interfering with its indulgence. Then may one judge of the imagination possessed by the herd. Italian sounds sweetly even from their mouths. Alfieri said that he went to the market of Florence to learn good Italian. Rome has the same advantage; and, perhaps, these are the only cities of which all the natives speak so well that the mind is feasted at every corner of the streets. The kind of gayety that shines through their harlequinades is often found in the most uneducated men; and during this festival, while exaggeration and caricature are fair play, the most comic scenes perpetually recur. Often a grotesque gravity contrasts the usually vivacious Italian manner, as if their strange dresses conferred an unnatural dignity on the wearers. Sometimes they evince so surprising a knowledge of mythology, in the travesties they assume, that one might suppose them still believers in its fictions. Most frequently, however, they ridicule the various ranks of society with a pleasantry truly original: the nation is now a thousand times more distinguished by its sports than by its history. Italian lends itself so easily to all kinds of playfulness, that it needs but a slight inflection of voice, a little difference of termination, lengthening or diminishing the words, to change the entire meaning of a sentence. The language comes with a peculiar grace from the lips of childhood. The innocence of that age, and the natural archness of the southern tongue, exquisitely contrast each other.[1] One may almost call it a language that talks of itself, and always seems more witty than its speakers.
There is neither splendor nor taste in the carnival: its universal tumult assimilates it in the fancy with the bacchanalian orgies; but in the fancy only; for the Romans are generally sober and serious enough—the last days of this fête excepted. The one makes such varied and sudden discoveries in their character, as have contributed to give them a reputation for cunning. Doubtless, there is a great habit of feigning among people who have borne so many yokes; but we must not always attribute their rapid changes of manner to dissimulation. Inflammable imagination is as oft its cause. Reasoners may readily foresee their own actions; but all that belongs to fancy is unexpected: she overleaps gradations; a trifle may wound her, or that which ought to move her most be past by with indifference; she's her own world, and in it there is no calculating effects by causes. For instance, we wonder what entertainment the Roman nobles find in driving from one end of the Corso to the other for hours together, every day in the year, yet nothing breaks in on this custom. Among the masks, too, may be found wandering victims to ennui, packed up in the drollest of dresses, sad harlequins, and silent clowns, who satisfy their carnival conscience by merely seeking to divert themselves. In Rome, they have one assumption that nowhere else exists—maskers, who, in their own persons, copy the antique statues, and from a distance perfectly realize their beauty. Many of the women are losers by renouncing this disguise. Nevertheless, to behold life imitating motionless marble, however gracefully, strikes one with fear. The carriages of the great and gay throng the streets; but the charm of these festivities is their saturnalian confusion: all classes are mingled; the gravest magistrates ride among the masks with almost official assiduity. All the windows are decorated, and all the world out of doors: the pleasure of the populace consists not in their spectacles nor their feasts; they commit no excess, but revel solely in the delight of mixing freely with their betters, who, on their parts, are as diverted at finding themselves thrown among those beneath them. Only the refined and delicate pleasures that spring from research and education can build up barriers between different ranks. Italy, as hath been said, is more distinguished by universal talent than by its cultivation among the aristocracy. Therefore, during the carnival, all minds and all manners blend: the shouting crowds, that indiscriminately shower their bonbons on the passers-by, confound the whole nation pell-mell, as if no social order remained. Corinne and Nevil arrived in the midst of this uproar: at first it stunned them; for nothing appears stranger than such activity of noisy enjoyment, while the soul is pensively retired within herself. They stopped in the Piazza del Popolo, to ascend the amphitheatre near the obelisk, thence to overlook the horse-racing: as they alighted from their calash, the Count d'Erfeuil perceived them, and took Oswald aside, saying: "How can you show yourself thus publicly returning from the country with Corinne? You will commit her, and then what can you do?" "I think I shall not commit her," returned he, "by showing my affection; if I do, I shall be but too happy, in the devotion of my life"—"Happy!" interrupted d'Erfeuil, "don't believe it! one can only be happy in becoming situations. Society, do what we will, has a great influence; and what society would disapprove ought never to be attempted." "Then," replied Oswald, "our own thoughts and feelings are to guide us less than the words of others. If it were our duty thus constantly to follow the million, what need has any individual with a heart or a soul? Providence might have spared us from such superfluities."—"Very philosophical," replied the Count; "but such maxims ruin a man; and when love is over, he is left to the censure of the world. Flighty as you think me, I would not risk it, on any account. We may allow ourselves the little freedoms and good-natured jests of independent thinkers, but in our actions such liberties become serious."—"And are not love and happiness serious considerations?" asked Nevil. "That is nothing to the purpose: there are certain established forms which you cannot brave without passing for an eccentric; for a man—in fact—you understand me—unlike other men." Lord Nevil smiled, and without either pain or displeasure rallied d'Erfeuil on his frivolous severity: he rejoiced to feel, for the first time, that on a subject which had cost him so much, the Count's advice had not the slightest power. Corinne guessed what had past, but Oswald's smile restored her composure; and this conversation tended but to put them both in spirits for the fête. Nevil expected to see a race like those of England; but was surprised to learn that small Barbary steeds were about to make the contest of speed without riders. This is a very favorite sport with the Romans.
When it was about to commence, the crowd ranged themselves on each side of the street. The Place, lately so thronged, was emptied in a minute: every one hurried to the stands which surrounded the obelisks; while a multitude of black heads and eyes were turned towards the barrier from which the barbs were to start. They appeared, without bridle or saddle, their backs covered by bright-hued stuffs: they were led by well-dressed grooms, passionately interested in their success. As the animals reach the barrier, their eagerness for release is almost uncontrollable: they rear, neigh, and paw the earth, as if impatient for the glory they are about to win, without the aid or guidance of man. Their prancing, and the rapturous cry of "Room, room!" as the barrier falls, have a perfectly theatrical effect. The grooms are all voice and gesture, as long as their steeds remain in sight; the creatures are as jealous as mankind of one another; the sparks fly beneath their feet; their manes float wildly on the breeze; and such is their desire to reach the goal, that some have fallen there dead. To look on these free things, all animated by personal passion, is astounding—as if one beheld Thought itself flying in that fine shape. The crowd break their ranks as the horses pass, and follow them in tumult. The Venetian palace ends the race; then may be heard exclamations of disappointment from those whose horses have been beaten; while he whose darling has deserved the greatest prize throws himself on his knees before the victor, thanking and recommending him to St. Anthony,[2] patron of the brute creation, with an enthusiasm as seriously felt as it is comically expressed. The races usually conclude the day. Then begins another kind of amusement, less attractive, but equally loud. The windows are illuminated; the guards leave their posts, to share the general joy. Every one carries a little torch, called moccolo, and every one tries to extinguish his neighbour's, repeating the word "ammazare" (kill), with formidable vivacity. "Kill the fair princess! let the Lord Abbot be killed!" The multitude, reassured by the interdiction of horses and carriages at that hour, pour forth from every quarter: all is turmoil and clamor; yet, as night advances, this ceases by degrees; the deepest silence succeeds. The remembrance of this evening is like that of a confused vision, which, for awhile, changed every dreamer's existence, and made the people forget their toil, the learned their studies, and the nobles their sloth.[3]
[1] I asked a little Tuscan girl which was the prettiest, her sister or herself. "Ah," she replied, "the best face is mine."
[2] An Italian postilion, beholding his horse expire, prayed for him, crying, "St. Anthony, have pity on his soul!"
[3] The reader who wishes to know more of the Roman Carnival, should read the charming description of Goethe; a picture faithful as it is animated.
[CHAPTER II.]
Oswald, since his misfortunes, had never regained sufficient courage voluntarily to hear music. He dreaded those ravishing sounds, so agreeable to melancholy, but which prove so truly injurious while we are weighed down by real calamities. Music revives the recollections it would appease. When Corinne sang, Oswald listened to the words she pronounced; gazed on her expressive features, and thought of nothing but her. Yet if, of an evening, in the streets, he heard many voices united to sing the sweet airs of celebrated composers, as is often the case in Italy, though inclined to pause, he soon withdrew, alarmed by the strong yet indefinite emotion which renewed his sorrows. But a concert was about to be given at the theatre of Rome, concentrating the talents of the first singers in Italy. Corinne asked Nevil to accompany her thither: he consented, hoping that her presence would soften all the pangs he must endure. On entering her box, she was immediately recognized; and a remembrance of her coronation, adding to the interest she usually created, all parts of the house resounded with applause, and cries of "Viva Corinne!" The musicians themselves, electrified by this unanimous sensation, sent forth strains of victory; for triumph, of whatever kind, awakens in our recollection "the pomp and circumstance of glorious war." Corinne was much moved by these testimonies of admiring affection. The indescribable impression always made by a human mass, simultaneously expressing the same sentiment, so deeply touched her heart, that she could not restrain her tears; her bosom heaved beneath her dress; and Oswald, with a sense of pique, whispered, "You must not, Madame, be torn from such success; it outvalues love, since it makes your heart beat thus;" he then retired to the back of the box, without waiting for her answer. In one instant had he swept away all the pleasure which she had owed to a reception prized most because he was its witness.
Those who have not heard Italian singing can form no idea of music. The human voice is soft and sweet as the flowers and skies. This charm was made but for such a clime: each reflect the other. The world is the work of a single thought, expressed in a thousand different ways. The Italians have ever devotedly loved music. Dante, in his Purgatory, meets the best singer of his day, and asks him for one of his delicious airs. The entranced spirits forget themselves as they hear it, until their guardian recalls them to the truth. The Christians, like the Pagans, believe the empire of music to extend beyond the grave: of all the fine arts, none act so immediately upon the soul: the others direct it towards such or such ideas: but this alone addresses the very source of life, and transforms the whole being at once, humanly speaking, as Divine Grace is said to change the heart. Among all our presentiments of futurity, those to which melody gives birth are not the least worthy of reverence. Even the mirth excited by buffo singing is not vulgar, but fanciful; beneath it lie poetic reveries, such as spoken wit never yet created. Music is so volatile a pleasure—we are so sensible that it escapes from us even as we enjoy it—that it always leaves a tender impression on the mind; yet, when expressive of grief, it sheds gentleness even over despair. The heart beats more quickly to its regular measure, and, reminding us of life's brevity, bids us enjoy what we can: the silent void is filled; you feel within yourself the active energies that fear no obstacle from without. Music doubles our computation of our own faculties, and makes us feel capable of the noblest efforts; teaches us to march towards death with enthusiasm, and is happily powerless to explain any base or artful sentiment. Music lifts from the breast the weight it so often feels beneath serious affections, and which we take for the heaviness of life, so habitual is its pressure: we hang on such pure sounds till we seem to discover the secrets of the Eternal, and penetrate the mysteries of nature: no words can explain this; for words but copy primitive sensations, as prose translators follow poetry. Looks alone resemble its effect: the long look of love, that gradually sinks into the breast, till one's eyes fall, unable to support so vast a bliss, lest this ray from another's soul should consume us.
The admirable union of two voices perfectly in tune produces an ecstasy that cannot be prolonged without pain: it is a blessing too great for humanity, which vibrates like an instrument broken beneath too perfect a harmony. Oswald had remained perversely apart from Corinne during the first act of the concert; but when the duets began in low voices, accompanied by the notes of clarionets and hautboys, purer even than their own, Corinne veiled her face, absorbed by emotion; she wept without suffering, and loved without dread; the image of Oswald was in her bosom; but a host of thoughts wandered too far to be distinct, even to herself. It is said that a prophet, in one moment, explored seven regions of heaven. Whoever can thus conceive the all which an instant may contain must have heard sweet music beside the object of his love. Oswald felt its power; his resentment decreased; the tenderness of Corinne explained and justified everything; he drew near her; she heard him breathing close by, at the most enchanting period of this celestial harmony: it was too much; the most pathetic tragedy could not have so overwhelmed her as did the sense of their both being equally penetrated by the same sounds, at the same instant: each fresh tone exalted the consciousness. The words sung were nothing; now and then allusions to love and death induced some recollection; but oftener did music alone suggest and realize the formless wish, as doth some pure and tranquil star, wherein we seem to see the image of all we could desire on earth. "Let us go," sighed Corinne: "I feel fainting."—"What is it, love?" asked Oswald, anxiously: "you are pale. Come into the air with me." They went together: her strength returned, as she leaned upon his arm; and she faltered forth, "Dear Oswald, I am about to leave you for eight days."—"What say you?" he cried.—"Every year," she answered, "I spend Passion week in a convent, to prepare for Easter." Oswald could not oppose, aware that most of the Roman ladies devoted themselves to pious severities at that time, even if careless of religion during the rest of the year; but he remembered that Corinne's faith and his own were not the same: they could not pray together. "Why are you not my countrywoman?" he exclaimed. "Our souls have but one country," she replied.—"True," he said; "yet I cannot the less feel everything that divides us." And this coming absence so dismayed him, that neither to Corinne, nor the friends who now joined them, could he speak another word that evening.
[CHAPTER III.]
Oswald called at Corinne's house early next day, in some uneasiness: her maid gave him a note, announcing her mistress's retirement to the convent that morning, and that she could not see him till after Good Friday. She confessed that she had not the courage to tell him the whole of this truth the night before. Oswald was struck as by an unexpected blow. The house in which he had always found Corinne now appeared sadly alone; her harp, books, drawings, all her household gods were there, but she was gone. A shudder crept through his veins; he thought on the chamber of his father, and sunk upon a seat. "It may be," he cried, "that I shall live to lose her too—that animated mind, that warm heart, that form so brilliantly fresh; the bolt may strike, and the tomb of youth is mute as that of age. What an illusion, then, is happiness! Inflexible Time, who watches ever o'er his prey, may tear it from us in a moment. Corinne! Corinne! why didst thou leave me? Thy magic alone can still my memory: dazzled by the hours of rapture passed with thee—but now—I am alone. I am again my wretched, wretched self!" He called upon Corinne with a desperation disproportionate to such brief absence, but attributable to the habitual anguish of his heart. The maid, Thérésina, heard his groans, and gratified by this regret for her mistress, re-entered, saying, "My Lord, for your consolation, I will even betray a secret of my lady's: I hope she will forgive me. Come to her bedroom, and you shall see your own portrait!"—"My portrait!" he repeated.—"Yes; she drew it from memory, and has risen, for the last week, at five in the morning, to have it finished before she went to the convent." The likeness was very strong, and painted with perfect grace. This pledge, indeed, consoled him; facing it was an exquisite Madonna, before which Corinne had formed her oratory. This "love and religion mingled," exists in Italy under circumstances far more extraordinary; for the image of Oswald was associated but with the purest hopes of his adorer.
Yet thus to place it near so divine an emblem, and to prepare herself for a convent by a week of such occupation, were traits that rather characterized Corinne's country than herself. Italian women are devout from sensibility, not principle; and nothing was more hostile to Oswald's opinions than their manner of thinking on this subject; yet how could he blame Corinne, while receiving so touching a proof of her affection? His looks strayed tenderly through this chamber, where he now stood for the first time. At the head of the bed he beheld the miniature of an aged man, evidently not an Italian; two bracelets hung near it, one formed by braids of black and of silver hair, the other of beautifully fair tresses, that, by a strange chance, reminded him of Lucy Edgarmond's, which he had attentively remarked three years since. Oswald did not speak; but Thérésina, as if to banish any jealous suspicion, told him, "that during the eleven years she had lived with her lady she had always seen these bracelets, which she knew contained the hair of Corinne's father, mother, and sister."—"Eleven years!" cries Oswald, "you were then——" he checked himself, blushing at the question he had begun, and precipitately left the house that he might escape further temptation. He frequently turned back to gaze on the windows, and when he lost sight of them he felt all the misery of solitude. That evening he went to an assembly, in search of something to divert his thoughts; for in grief, as joy, reverie can only be indulged by those at peace with themselves; but society was insupportable: he was more than ever convinced that for him Corinne alone had lent it charms, by the void which her absence rendered it now. He attempted to chat with the ladies, who replied by those insipid phrases, which, explaining nothing, are so convenient for those who have something to conceal. He saw groups of men, who, by their voices and gestures, seemed warmly discussing some important topic: he drew near, and found the matter of their discourse as despicable as its manner. He mused over this causeless, aimless vivacity, so frequently found in large parties;—though Italian mediocrity is a good sort of animal enough, with but little jealous vanity, much regard for superior minds, and, if fatiguing them by dulness, at least never wounding them by pretence. Such was the society that, a few days since, Oswald had found so interesting. The slight obstacles which it opposed to his conversation with Corinne; her anxiety to be near him, as soon as she had been sufficiently polite to others; the intelligence existing between them on subjects suggested by their company; her pride, in speaking before him, to whom she indirectly addressed remarks, he alone could fully understand. All this had varied his evenings: every part of these same halls brought back the pleasant hours which had persuaded him that there might be some amusement even at an assembly. "Oh!" he sighed, as he left it, "here, as elsewhere, she alone can give us life; let me fly rather to some desert spot till she returns. I shall less sadly feel her absence, where naught is near me that resembles pleasure."