THE ADIEU TO ROME, AND JOURNEY TO VENICE.
[CHAPTER I.]
It was with deep emotion that Oswald read the narrative of Corinne: many and varied were the confused thoughts that agitated him. Sometimes he felt hurt by the picture she drew of an English country, and despairingly exclaimed: "Such a woman could never be happy in domestic life!" then he pitied what she had suffered there, and could not but admire the simple frankness of her recital. He was jealous of the affection she had felt ere she met him; and the more he sought to hide this from himself, the more it tortured him; but above all was he afflicted by his father's part in her history. His anguish was such that, not knowing what he did, he rushed forth beneath the noonday sun, when the streets of Naples were deserted, and their inhabitants all secluded in the shade. He hurried at random towards Portici: the beams which fell on his brow at once excited and bewildered his ideas. Corinne, meanwhile, having waited for some hours, could no longer resist her desire to see him. She entered his room; he was not there: his absence at such a crisis, fearfully alarmed her. She saw her papers on the table, and doubted not that, after reading them, he had left her forever. Each moment's attempt at patience added to her distress; she walked the chamber hastily, then stopped, in fear of losing the least sound that might announce his return; at last, unable to control her anxiety, she descended to inquire if any one had seen Lord Nevil go out, and which way he went. The master of the inn replied: "Towards Portici;" adding, "that his Lordship surely would not walk far at such a dangerous period of the day." This terror, blending with so many others, determined Corinne to follow him, though her head: was undefended from the sun. The large white pavements of Naples, formed of lava, redoubling the light and heat, scorched and dazzled her as she walked. She did not intend going to Portici, yet advanced towards it with increasing speed, meeting no one; for even the animals now shrunk from the ardors of the clime. Clouds of dust filled the air, with the slightest breeze, covering the fields, and concealing all appearance of verdant life. Every instant Corinne felt about to fall; not even a tree was near to support her. Reason reeled in this burning desert: a few steps more, and she might reach the royal palace, beneath whose porch she would find both shade and water; but her strength failed—she could no longer see her way—her head swam—a thousand flames, more vivid even than the blaze of day, danced before her eyes—an unrefreshing darkness suddenly succeeded them—a cruel thirst consumed her. One of the Lazzaroni, the only human creature expected to brave these fervid horrors, now came up; she prayed him to bring her a little water; but the man beholding so beautiful and elegant a woman alone, on foot, at such an hour, concluded that she must be insane, and ran from her in dismay. Fortunately, Oswald at this moment returned: the voice of Corinne reached his ear. He hastened towards her, as she was falling to the earth insensible, and bore her to the palace portico, where he called her back to life by the tenderest cares. As she recognized him, her senses still wandered, and she wildly exclaimed: "You promised never to depart without my consent! I may now appear unworthy of your love; but a promise, Oswald!"—"Corinne," he cried, "the thought of leaving you never entered my heart. I would only reflect on our fate; and wished to recover my spirits ere I saw you again."—"Well," she said, struggling to appear calm, "you have had time, during the long hours that might have cost my life; time enough—therefore speak! tell me what you have resolved!" Oswald, terrified at the accents, which betrayed her inmost feelings, knelt before her, answering, "Corinne, my heart is unchanged; what have I learned that should dispel your enchantment? Only hear me;" and as she trembled still more violently, he added, with much earnestness: "Listen fearlessly to one who cannot live, and know thou art unhappy."—"Ah," she sighed, "it is of my happiness you speak; your own, then, no longer depends on me? Yet I repulse not your pity; for, at this moment, I have need of it: but think you I will live for that alone?"—"No, no, we will both live for love. I will return."—"Return!" interrupted Corinne, "Ah, you do go, then? What has happened? how is all changed since yesterday! hapless wretch that I am!"—"Dearest love," returned Oswald, "be composed; and let me, if I can, explain my meaning; it is better than you suppose, much better; but it is necessary, nevertheless, that I should ascertain my father's reasons for opposing our union seven years since: he never mentioned the subject to me; but his most intimate surviving friend, in England, must know his motives. If, as I believe, they sprung from unimportant circumstances, I can pardon your desertion of your father's land and mine; to so noble a country love may attach you yet, and bid you prefer homefelt peace, with its gentle and natural virtues, even to the fame of genius. I will hope everything, do everything; if my father decides against thee, Corinne, I will never be the husband of another, though then I cannot be thine." A cold dew stood on his brow: the effort he had made to speak thus cost him so much agony, that for some time Corinne could think of nothing but the sad state in which she beheld him. At last she took his hand, crying, "So, you return to England without me!" Oswald was silent. "Cruel!" she continued: "you say nothing to contradict my fears; they are just, then, though even while saying so I cannot yet believe it."—"Thanks to your cares," answered Nevil, "I have regained the life so nearly lost: it belongs to my country during the war. If I can marry you, we part no more. I will restore you to your rank in England. If this too happy lot should be forbidden me, I shall return, with the peace, to Italy, stay with you long, and change your fate in nothing save in giving you one faithful friend the more."—"Not change my fate!" she repeated; "you, who have become my only interest in the world! to whom I owe the intoxicating draught which gives happiness or death? Yet tell me, at least, this parting, when must it be? How many days are left me?"—"Beloved!" he cried, pressing her to his heart, "I swear, that for three months I will not leave thee; not, perhaps, even then."—"Three months!" she burst forth; "am I to live so long? it is much, I did not hope so much. Come, I feel better. Three months?—what a futurity!" she added, with a mixture of joy and sadness, that profoundly affected Oswald, and both, in silence, entered the carriage which took them back to Naples.
[CHAPTER II.]
Castel Forte awaited them at the inn. A report had been circulated of their marriage: it greatly pained the Prince, yet he came to assure himself of the fact; to regain, as a friend, the society of his love, even if she were forever united to another. The state of dejection in which he beheld her, for the first time, occasioned him much uneasiness; but he dared not question her, as she seemed to avoid all conversation on this subject. There are situations in which we dread to confide in any one; a single word, that we might say or hear, would suffice to dissipate the illusion that supports our life. The self-deceptions of impassioned sentiment have the peculiarity of humoring the heart, as we humor a friend whom we fear to afflict by the truth; thus, unconsciously, trust we our own griefs to the protection of our own pity.
Next day, Corinne, who was too natural a person to attempt producing an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear gay; believing that the best method of retaining Oswald was to seem as attractive as formerly. She, therefore, introduced some interesting topic; but suddenly her abstraction returned, her eyes wandered; the woman who had possessed the greatest possible faculty of address now hesitated in her choice of words, and sometimes used expressions that bore not the slightest reference to what she intended saying: then she would laugh at herself, though through tears; and Oswald, overwhelmed by the wreck he had made, would have sought to be alone with her, but she carefully denied him an opportunity.
"What would you learn from me?" she said one day, when for an instant, he insisted on speaking with her. "I regret myself—that is all! I had some pride in my talents. I loved success, glory. The praises, even of indifferent persons, were objects of my ambition; now I care for nothing; and it is not happiness that weans me from these vain pleasures, but a vast discouragement. I accuse not you; it springs from myself; perhaps I may yet triumph over it. Many things pass in the depths of the soul that we can neither foresee nor direct; but I do you justice, Oswald: I see you suffer for me. I sympathize with you, too; why should not pity bestow her gifts on us? Alas! they might be offered to all who breathe, without proving very inapplicable."
Oswald, indeed, was not less wretched than Corinne. He loved her strongly; but her history had wounded his affections, his way of thinking. He seemed to perceive clearly that his father had prejudged everything for him; and that he could only wed Corinne in defiance of such warning; yet how resign her? His uncertainty was more painful than that which he hoped to terminate by a knowledge of her life. On her part, she had not wished that the tie of marriage should unite her to Oswald: so she could have been certain that he would never leave her, she would have wanted no more to render her content; but she knew him well enough to understand, that he could conceive no happiness save in domestic life; and would never abjure the design of marrying her, unless in ceasing to love. His departure for England appeared the signal for her death. She was aware how great an influence the manners and opinions of his country held over his mind. Vainly did he talk of passing his life with her in Italy; she doubted not that, once returned to his home, the thought of quitting it again would be odious to him. She felt that she owed her power to her charms; and what is that power in absence? What are the memories of imagination to a man encircled by all the realities of social order, the more imperious from being founded on pure and noble reason? Tormented by these reflections, Corinne strove to exert some power over her fondness. She tried to speak with Castel Forte on literature and the fine arts: but, if Oswald joined them, the dignity of his mien, the melancholy look which seemed to ask, "Why will you renounce me?" disconcerted all her attempts. Twenty times would she have told him, that his irresolution offended her, and that she was decided to leave him; but she saw him now lean his head upon his hand, as if bending breathless beneath his sorrows; now musing beside the sea, or raising his eyes to heaven, at the sound of music; and these simple changes, whose magic was known but to herself, suddenly overthrew her determination. A look, an accent, a certain grace of gesture, reveals to love the nearest secrets of the soul; and, perhaps, a countenance, so apparently cold as Nevil's, can never be read, save by those to whom it is dearest. Impartiality guesses nothing, judges only by what is displayed. Corinne, in solitude, essayed a test which had succeeded when she had but believed that she loved. She taxed her spirit of observation (which was capable of detecting the slightest foibles) to represent Oswald beneath less seducing colors; but there was nothing about him less than noble, simple, and affecting. How then defeat the spell of so perfectly natural a mind? It is only affectation which can at once awaken the heart, astonished at ever having loved. Besides, there existed between Oswald and Corinne a singular, all-powerful sympathy. Their tastes were not the same; their opinions rarely accorded; yet in the centre of each soul dwelt kindred mysteries, drawn from one source; a secret likeness, that attests the same nature, however differently modified by external circumstances. Corinne, therefore, found, to her dismay, that she had but increased her passion, by thus minutely considering Oswald anew, even in her very struggle against his image. She invited Castel Forte to return to Rome with them. Nevil knew she did this to avoid being alone with him: he felt it sadly, but could not oppose. He was no longer persuaded that what he might offer Corinne would constitute her content; and this thought rendered him timid. She, the while, had hoped that he would refuse the Prince's company. Their situation was no longer honest as of old; though as yet without actual dissimulation, restraint already troubled a regard, which for six months had daily conferred on them a bliss almost unqualified. Returning by Capua and Gaëta, scenes which she had so lately visited with such delight, Corinne felt that these beauties vainly called on her to reflect their smile. When such a sky fails to disperse the clouds of care, its laughing contrast but augments their gloom.
They arrived at Terracina on a deliciously refreshing eve. Corinne withdrew after supper. Oswald went forth, and his heart, like hers, led him towards the spot where they had rested on their way to Naples. He beheld her kneeling before the rock on which they sat; and, as he looked on the moon, saw that she was veiled by a cloud, as she had been two months since at that hour. Corinne, at his approach, rose, and pointing upwards, said: "Have I not reason to believe in omens? Is there not some compassion in that heaven? It warned me of the future; and to-night, you see, it mourns for me. Forget not, Oswald, to remark, if such a cloud passes not over the moon when I am dying."—"Corinne," he cried, "have I deserved that you should kill me? It were easily done: speak thus again, and you will see how easily—but for what crime? Your mode of thinking lifts you above the world's opinion: in your country it is not severe; and if it were, your genius could surmount it. Whatever happens, I will live near you; whence, then, this despair? If I cannot be your husband, without offence to the memory of one who reigns equally with yourself in my breast—do you not love me well enough to find some solace in the tender devotion of mine every instant? Have you not still my ring—that sacred pledge?"—"I will return it, Oswald."—"Never!"—"Ah, yes; when you desire it, the ring itself will tell me. An old legend says that the diamond, more true than man, dims when the giver has betrayed our trust."[1]—"Corinne," said Oswald, "dare you speak such treason? your mind is lost; it no longer knows me."—"Pardon! oh, pardon me! in love like mine, the heart, Oswald, is gifted suddenly with most miraculous instincts; and its own sufferings become oracles. What portends, then, the heavy palpitation of my heart? Ah, love, I should not fear it, if it were but my knell!" She fled, precipitately, dreading to remain longer with him. She could not dally with her grief, but sought to break from it; yet it returned but the more violently for her repulse. The next day, as they crossed the Pontine Marsh, Oswald's care of her was even more scrupulous than before; she received it with the sweetest thankfulness: but there was something in her look that said: "Why will you not let me die?"
[1] An old tradition supports the imaginative prejudice which persuaded Corinne that the diamond could forewarn its wearer of its giver's treachery. Frequent allusions are made to this legend by Spanish poets, in their peculiar manner. In one of Calderon's tragedies, Ferdinand, Prince of Portugal, prefers death in chains, before the crime of surrendering to a Moorish king the Christian city which his brother, King Edward, offers for his ransom. The Moor, enraged at this refusal, subjects the noble youth to the basest ignominy. Ferdinand, in reproof, reminds him that mercy and generosity are the truest characteristics of supreme power. He cites all that is royal in the universe—the lion, the dolphin, the eagle, amid animals; and seeks even among plants and stones for traits of natural goodness, which have been attributed to those who lord it over the rest. Thus he says, the diamond, which resists the blow of steel, resolves itself to dust, that it may inform its master if treason threatens him. It is impossible to know whether this mode of considering all nature as connected with the destiny and sentiments of man is mathematically correct; but it is ever pleasing to imagination; and poetry, especially that of Spain, has owed it many great beauties. Calderon is only known to me by the German translation of Wihelm Schlegel; but this author, one of his own country's finest poets, has the art of transporting into his native language, with the rarest perfection, the poetic graces of Spanish, English, and Italian—giving a lively idea of the original, be it what it may.
NoteTR.—Had Oswald's gift been his mother's wedding-ring, that incident would have been more affecting than so fanciful a fable.
[CHAPTER III.]
What a desert seems Rome, in going to it from Naples! Entering by the gate of St. John Lateran, you traverse but long, solitary streets; they please afresh after a little time: but, on just leaving a lively, dissipated population, it is melancholy to be thrown upon one's self, even were that self at ease. Besides this, Rome, towards the end of July, is a dangerous residence. The malaria renders many quarters uninhabitable; and the contagion often spreads through the whole city. This year, particularly, every face bore the impress of apprehension. Corinne was met at her own door by a monk, who asked leave to bless her house against infection: she consented; and the priest walked through the rooms, sprinkling holy water, and repeating Latin prayers. Lord Nevil smiled at this ceremony—Corinne's heart melted over it. "I find indefinable charms," she said, "in all that is religious, or even superstitious, while nothing hostile nor intolerant blends with it. Divine aid is so needful, when our thoughts stray from the common path, that the highest minds most require superhuman care."—"Doubtless such want exists, but can it thus be satisfied?"—"I never refuse a prayer associated with my own, from whomsoever it is offered me."—"You are right," said Nevil, giving his purse to the old friar, who departed with benedictions on them both. When the friends of Corinne heard of her return, they flocked to see her: if any wondered that she was not Oswald's wife, none, at least, asked the reason: the pleasure of regaining her diverted them from every other thought. Corinne endeavored to appear unchanged; but she could not succeed. She revisited the works of art that once afforded her such vivid pleasure; but sorrow was the base of her every feeling now. At the Villa Borghese, or the tomb of Cecilia Metella, she no longer enjoyed that reverie on the instability of human blessings, which lends them a still more touching character. A fixed, despondent pensiveness absorbed her. Nature, who ever speaks to the heart vaguely, can do nothing for it when oppressed by real calamities. Oswald and Corinne were worse than unhappy; for actual misery oft causes such emotions as relieve the laden breast; and from the storm may burst a flash pointing the onward way: but mutual restraint, and fruitless efforts to escape pursuing recollections, made them even discontented with one another. Indeed, how can we suffer thus, without accusing the being we love as the cause? True, a word, a look, suffices to efface our displeasure; but that look, that word, may not come when most expected, or most needful. Nothing in love can be premeditated; it is as a power divine, that thinks and feels within us, unswayed by our control.
A fever, more malignant than had been known in Rome for some years, now broke out suddenly. A young woman was attacked; her friends and family refused to fly, and perished with her. The next house experienced the same devastation. Every hour a holy fraternity, veiled in white, accompanied the dead to interment; themselves appearing like the ghosts of those they followed. The bodies, with their faces uncovered, are borne on a kind of litter. Over their feet is thrown a pall of gold or rose-colored satin; and children often unconsciously play with the cold hands of the corpse. This spectacle, at once terrific and familiar, is graced but by the monotonous murmur of a psalm, in which the accent of the human soul can scarce be recognized. One evening, when Oswald and Corinne were alone together, and he more depressed than usual by her altered manner, he heard, beneath the windows, these dreary sounds, announcing a funeral; he listened awhile in silence, and then said: "Perhaps to-morrow I may be seized by this same malady, against which there is no defence; you will then wish that you had said a few kind words to me on the day that may be my last. Corinne, death threatens us both closely. Are there not miseries enough in life, that we should thus mutually augment each other's?" Struck by the idea of his danger, she now entreated him to leave Rome instantly; he stubbornly refused: she then proposed their going to Venice; to this he cheerfully assented: it was for her alone that he had trembled. Their departure was fixed for the second day from this; but on that morning, Oswald, who had not seen Corinne the night before, received a note, informing him that indispensable business obliged her to visit Florence; but that she should rejoin him at Venice in a fortnight; she begged him to take Ancona in his way, and gave him a seemingly important commission to execute for her there. Her style was more calm and considerate than he had found it since they left Naples. He believed her implicitly, and prepared for his journey; but, wishing once more to behold the dwelling of Corinne ere he left Rome, he went thither, found it shut up, and rapped at the door. An old woman appeared, told him that all the other servants had gone with her mistress, and would not answer another word to his numerous questions. He hastened to Prince Castel Forte, who was as surprised as himself at Corinne's abrupt retirement. Nevil, all anxiety, imagined that her agent at Tivoli must have received some instructions as to her affairs. He mounted his horse with a promptitude unusual to him, and, in extreme agitation, rode to her country house; its doors were open; he entered, passed some of the rooms without meeting any one, till he reached that of Corinne: though darkness reigned there, he saw her on her bed, with Thérésina alone beside her; he uttered a cry of recognition: it recalled her to consciousness: she raised herself, saying eagerly: "Do not come near me! I forbid you! I die if you do!"
Oswald felt as if his beloved were accusing him of some crime which she had all at once suspected: believing himself hated—scorned—he fell on his knees, with despairing submission which suggested to Corinne the idea of profiting by this mistake, and she commanded him to leave her forever, as if he had in truth been guilty. Speechless with wonder, he would have obeyed, when Thérésina sobbed forth: "Oh, my Lord! will you, then, desert my dear lady? She has sent every one away, and would fain banish me too: for she has caught the infectious fever!" These words instantly explained the affecting stratagem of Corinne; and Oswald clasped her to his heart, with a transport of tenderness, such as he had never before experienced. In vain she repelled him; in vain she reproached Thérésina. Oswald bade the good creature withdraw, and lavished his tearful kisses on the face of his adored. "Now, now," he cried, "thou shalt not die without me: if the fatal poison be in thy veins, at least, thank Heaven, I breathe it in thine arms."—"Dear, cruel Oswald!" she sighed, "to what tortures you condemn me! O God! since he will not live without me, let not my better angel perish! no, save him, save him!" Here her strength was lost, and, for eight days, she remained in the greatest danger. In the midst of her delirium, she would cry: "Keep Oswald from me! let him not come here! never tell him where I am!" When her reason returned, she gazed on him, murmuring: "Oswald! in death as in life you are with me; we shall be reunited." When she perceived how pale he was, a deadly terror seized her, and she called to his aid the physicians, who had given her a strong proof of devotion in never having abandoned her. Oswald constantly held her burning hands in his, and finished the cup of which she had drunk; in fact, with such avidity did he share her perils, that she herself ceased at last to combat this passionate self-sacrifice. Leaning her head upon his arm, she resigned herself to his will. The beings who so love that they feel the impossibility of living without each other, may well attain the noble and tender intimacy which puts all things in common, even death itself.[1] Happily, Lord Nevil did not take the disease through which he so carefully nursed Corinne. She recovered; but another malady penetrated yet deeper into her breast. The generosity of her lover, alas! redoubled the attachment she had borne him.
[1] M. Dubreuil, a very skilful French physician, fell ill of a fatal distemper. His popularity filled the sick room with visitants. Calling to his intimate friend, M. Péméja, as eminent a man as himself, he said, "Send away all these people; you know my fever is contagious; no one but yourself ought to be with me now." Happy the friend who ever heard such words! Péméja died fifteen days after his heart's brother.
[CHAPTER IV.]
It was agreed that Neville and Corinne should visit Venice. They had relapsed into silence on their future prospects, but spoke of their affection more confidingly than ever: both avoided all topics that could disturb their present mutual peace. A day passed with him was to her such enjoyment! he seemed so to revel in her conversation; he followed her every impulse; studied her slightest wish, with so sustained an interest, that it appeared impossible he could bestow so much felicity without himself being happy. Corinne drew assurances of safety from the bliss she tasted. After some months of such habits we believe them inseparable from our existence. Her agitation was calmed again, and her natural heedlessness of the future returned. Yet, on the eve of quitting Rome, she became extremely melancholy: this time she both hoped and feared that it was forever. The night before her departure, unable to sleep, she heard a troop of Romans singing in the moonlight. She could not resist her desire to follow them, and once more wander through that beloved scene. She dressed; and bidding her servants keep the carriage within sight of her, put on a veil, to avoid recognition, and at some distance, pursued the musicians. They paused on the bridge of St. Angelo, in front of Adrian's tomb: in such a spot music seems to express the vanities and splendors of the world. One might fancy one beheld in the air the imperial shade wondering to find no other trace left of his power on earth except a tomb. The band continued their walk, singing as they went, to the silent night, when the happy ought to sleep: their pure and gentle melodies seem designed to solace wakeful suffering. Drawn onward by this resistless spell, Corinne, insensible to fatigue, seemed winging her way along. They also sang before Antoninus's pillar, and then at Trajan's column: they saluted the obelisk of St. John Lateran. The ideal language of music worthily mates the ideal expression of works like these: enthusiasm reigns alone, while vulgar interests slumber. At last the singers departed, and left Corinne near the Coliseum: she wished to enter its inclosure and bid adieu to ancient Rome.
Those who have seen this place but by day cannot judge of the impression it may make. The sun of Italy should shine on festivals; but the moon is the light for ruins. Sometimes, through the openings of the amphitheatre, which seems towering to the clouds, a portion of heaven's vault appears like a dark blue curtain. The plants that cling to the broken walls all wear the hues of night. The soul at once shudders and melts on finding itself alone with nature. One side of this edifice is much more fallen than the other; the two contemporaries make an unequal struggle against time. He fells the weakest; the other still resists, but soon must yield.
"Ye solemn scenes!" cried Corinne, "where, at this hour, no being breathes beside me—where but the echoes of my own voice answer me—how are the storms of passion calmed by nature, who thus peacefully permits so many generations to glide by! Has not the universe some better end than man? or are its marvels scattered here, merely to be reflected in his mind? Oswald! why do I love with such idolatry? why live but for the feelings of a day compared to the infinite hopes that unite us with divinity? My God! if it be true, as I believe, that we admire thee the more capable we are of reflection, make my own mind my refuge against my heart! The noble being whose gentle looks I can never forget is but a perishable mortal like myself. Among the stars there is eternal love, alone sufficing to a boundless heart." Corinne remained long in these ideas, and, at last, turned slowly towards her own abode; but, ere she re-entered it, she wished to await the dawn at St. Peter's, and from its dome take her last leave of all beneath. Her imagination represented this edifice as it must be, when, in its turn, a wreck—the theme of wonder for yet unborn ages. The columns, now erect, half bedded in earth; the porch dilapidated, with the Egyptian obelisk exulting over the decay of novelties, wrought for an earthly immortality. From the summit of St. Peter's Corinne beheld day rise over Rome, which, in its uncultivated Campagna, looks like the oasis of a Libyan desert. Devastation is around it; but the multitude of spires and cupolas, over which St. Peter's rises, give a strange beauty to its aspect. This city may boast one peculiar charm: we love it as an animated being: its very ruins are as friends, from whom we cannot part without farewell.
Corinne addressed the Pantheon, St. Angelo's, and all the sites that once renewed the pleasures of her fancy. "Adieu!" she said, "land of remembrances! scenes where life depends not on events, nor on society; where enthusiasm refreshes itself through the eyes, and links the soul to each external object. I leave you, to follow Oswald, not knowing to what fate he may consign me. I prefer him to the independence which here afforded me such happy days. I may return to more; but for a broken heart and blighted mind, ye arts and monuments so oft invoked, while I was exiled beneath his stormy sky, ye could do nothing to console!"
She wept; yet thought not, for an instant, of letting Oswald depart without her. Resolutions springing from the heart we often justly blame, yet hesitate not to adopt. When passion masters a superior mind, it separates our judgment from our conduct, and need not cloud the one in order to overrule the other.
Corinne's black curls and veil floating on the breeze gave her so picturesque an air, that, as she left the church, the common people recognised and followed her to her carriage with the warmest testimonials of respect. She sighed again, at parting from a race so ardent and so graceful in their expressions of esteem. Nor was this all. She had to endure the regrets of her friends They devised fêtes in order to delay her departure: their poetical tributes strove in a thousand ways to convince her that she ought to stay; and finally they accompanied her on horseback for twenty miles. She was extremely affected. Oswald cast down his eyes in confusion, reproaching himself for tearing her from so much delight, though he knew that an offer of remaining there would be more barbarous still. He appeared selfish in removing Corinne from Rome; yet he was not so; for the fear of afflicting her, by setting forth alone, had more weight with him than even the hope of retaining her presence. He knew not what he was about to do—saw nothing beyond Venice. He had written to inquire how soon his regiment would be actively employed in the war, and awaited a reply. Sometimes he thought of taking Corinne with him to England; yet instantly remembered that he should forever ruin her reputation by so doing, unless she were his wife; then he wished to soften the pangs of separation by a private marriage; but a moment afterwards gave up that plan also. "We can keep no secrets from the dead," he cried: "and what should I gain by making a mystery of a union prohibited by nothing but my worship of a tomb?" His mind, so weak in all that concerned his affections, was sadly agitated by contending sentiments. Corinne resigned herself to him, like a victim, exulting, amid her sorrows, in the sacrifices she made; while Oswald, responsible for the welfare of another, bound himself to her daily by new ties, without the power of yielding to them; and unhappy in his love as in his conscience, felt the presence of both but in their combats with each other.
When the friends of Corinne took leave, they commended her earnestly to his care; congratulated him on the love of so eminent a woman; their every word sounding like mockery and upbraiding. She felt this, and hastily concluded the trying scene; and when, after turning from time to time to salute her, they were at last lost to her sight, she only said to her lover: "Oswald! I have now no one but you in the world!" How did he long to swear he would be hers! But frequent disappointments teach us to mistrust our own inclinations, and shrink even from the vows our hearts may prompt. Corinne read his thoughts, and delicately strove to fix his attention on the country through which they travelled.
[CHAPTER V.]
It was the beginning of September, and the weather super till they neared the Apennines, where they felt the approach of winter. A soft air is seldom united with the pleasure of looking on picturesque mountains. One evening, a terrible hurricane arose: the thickest darkness closed around them; and the horses, so wild there that they are even harnessed by stratagem, set off with inconceivable rapidity. Our lovers felt much excited by being thus hurried on together. "Ah!" cried Oswald, "if they could bear us from all I know on earth—if they could climb these hills, and dash into another life, where we should regain my father, who would receive and bless us, would you not go with me, beloved?" He pressed her vehemently to his bosom. Corinne, enamored as himself, replied: "Dispose of me as you will; chain me like a slave to your fate: had not the slaves of other days talents that soothed their masters? Such would I be to thee. But, Oswald, yet respect her who thus trusts thee: condemned by all the world, she must not blush to meet thine eye."—"No," he exclaimed, "I will lose all, or all obtain. I ought, I must either live thy husband, or die in stifling the transports of my passion: but I will hope to be thine before the world, and glory in thy tenderness. Yet tell me, I conjure thee, have I not sunk in thine esteem by all these struggles? Canst thou believe thyself less dear than ever?" His accents were so sincere, that, for awhile, they gave her back her confidence, and the purest, sweetest rapture animated them both.
Meanwhile the horses stopped. Oswald alighted first. The cold sharp wind almost made him fancy himself landing in England: this freezing air was not like that of Italy, which bids young breasts forget all things save love. Oswald sank back into his gloom. Corinne, who knew the unsettled nature of his fancy, but too well guessed the cause. On the morrow they arrived at our Lady of Loretto, which stands upon an eminence, from whence is seen the Adriatic. While Oswald gave some orders for their journey, Corinne entered the church, where the image of the Virgin is inclosed in the choir of a small chapel, adorned with bas-reliefs. The marble pavement that surrounds the sanctuary is worn by pilgrim knees. Corinne, moved by these marks of prayer, knelt on the stones so often pressed by the unfortunate, and addressed the type of heavenly truth and sensibility. Oswald here found her bathed in tears. He did not understand how a woman of her mind could bow to the practices of the ignorant. She guessed this by his looks, and said: "Dear Oswald, are there not many moments when we dare not raise our hopes to the Supreme Being, or breathe to him the sorrows of our hearts? Is it not pleasing, then, to behold a woman as intercessor for our human weakness? She suffered on this earth, for she lived on it; to her I blush not to pray for you, when a petition to God himself would overawe me."—"I cannot always directly supplicate my Maker," replied Oswald. "I, too, have my intercessor: the guardian angel of children is their father: and since mine has been in heaven, I have oft received an unexpected solace, aid, and composure, which I can but attribute to the miraculous protection whence I still hope to escape from my perplexities."—"I comprehend you," said Corinne, "and believe there is no one who has not some mysterious idea of his own destiny—one event which he has always dreaded, and which, though improbable, is sure to happen. The punishment of some fault, though it be impossible to trace the connection our misfortunes have with it, often strikes the imagination. From my childhood I trembled at the idea of living in England. Well; my inability to do so may be my worst regret; and on that point I feel there is something unconquerable in my fate, against which I struggle in vain. Every one conceives his life interiorly a contrast to what it seems we have a confused sense of some supernatural power, disguised in the form of external circumstance, while itself alone is the source of all our actions. Dear friend, minds capable of reasoning forever plunge into their own abyss, but always fail to fathom it."
Oswald, as he heard her speak thus, wondered to find that, while she was capable of such glowing sentiments, her judgment still could hover over them, like their presiding genius. "No," he frequently said to himself, "no other society on earth can satisfy the man who has possessed such a companion as this."
They entered Ancona at night, as he wished not to be recognized: in spite of his precautions, however, he was so; and the next morning all the inhabitants crowded about the house in which he stayed, awaking Corinne by shouts of "Long live Lord Nevil, our benefactor!" She started, rose hastily, and mingled with the crowd, to hear their praises of the man she loved. Oswald, informed that the people were impatiently calling for him, was at last obliged to appear. He believed Corinne still slept: what was his astonishment at finding her already known and cherished by the grateful multitude, who entreated her to be their interpretress! Corinne's imagination—by turns her charm and her defect—delighted in extraordinary adventures. She thanked Lord Nevil, in the name of the people, with a grace so noble that the natives were in ectasies. Speaking for them, she said: "You preserved us—we owe you our lives!" But when she offered him the oak and laurel crown they had entwined, an indefinite timidity beset her: the enthusiastic populace prostrated themselves before him, and Corinne involuntarily bent her knee in tendering him the garland. Oswald was so overwhelmed at the sight, that he could no longer support this scene, nor the public homage of his beloved; but drew her away with him. She wept, and thanked the good inhabitants of Ancona, who followed them with blessings, as Oswald, hiding himself in his carriage, murmured: "Corinne at my feet! Corinne, in whose path I ought to kneel! Have I deserved this? Do you suspect me of such unworthy pride?"—"No, no," she said; "but I was suddenly seized with the respect a woman always feels for him she loves. To us, indeed, is external deference most directed; but in truth, in nature, it is the woman who reveres the being capable of defending her."
"Yes, I will be thy defender, to the last hour of my life!" he answered. "Heaven be my witness, such a genius shall not in vain seek a refuge in the harbor of my love!"—"Alas!" she sighed, "that love is all I need; and what promise can secure it to me? No matter. I feel that you love me now better than ever: let us not trouble this return of affection."—"Return!" interrupted Oswald.—"I cannot retract the expression; but let us not seek to explain it;" and she made a gentle sign for Nevil to be silent.
[CHAPTER VI.]
For two days they proceeded on the shore of the Adriatic; but this sea, on the Romagnan side, has not the effect of the ocean, nor even of the Mediterranean. The high road winds close to its waves, and grass grows on its banks: it is not thus that we would represent the mighty realm of tempests. At Rimini and Cesena, you quit the classic scenes of history: their latest remembrancer is the Rubicon, which Cæsar passed to become the lord of Rome. Not far from hence is the republic of St. Marino, the last weak vestige of liberty, besides the spot on which was resolved the destruction of the world's chief republic. By degrees, you now advance towards a country very opposite in aspect to the Papal State. Bologna, Lombardy, the environs of Ferrara and Rovigo, are remarkable for beauty and cultivation—how unlike the poetic barrenness and decay that announce an approach to Rome, and tell of the terrible events that have occurred there!
You then quit what Sabran calls "black pines, the summer's mourning, but the winter's bravery," and the conical cypresses that remind one of obelisks, mountains, and the sea. Nature, like the traveller, now parts from the southern rays. At first, the oranges are found no longer in the open air—they are succeeded by olives, whose pale and tender foliage might suit the bowers of the Elysian fields. Further on, even the olive disappears.
On entering Bologna's smiling plain, the vines garland the elms together, and the whole land is decked as for a festival. Corinne was sensible of the contrast between her present state of mind and the resplendent scene she now beheld.—"Ah, Oswald!" she sighed, "ought nature to spread such images of happiness before two friends perhaps about to lose each other?"—"No, Corinne—never! each day I feel less able to resign thee: that untiring gentleness unites the charm of habit with the love I bear thee. One lives as contentedly with you as if you were not the finest genius in the world, or, rather, because you are so; for real superiority confers a perfect goodness, that makes one's peace with one's self and all the world. What angry thoughts can live in such a presence?" They arrived at Ferrara, one of the saddest towns in Italy, vast and deserted. The few inhabitants found there, at distant intervals, loiter on slowly, as if secure of time for all they have to do. It is hard to conceive this the scene of that gay court sung both by Tasso and Ariosto; yet still are shown their manuscripts, with that also of the Pastor Fido. Ariosto knew how to live at ease here, amid courtiers; but the house is yet to be seen wherein they dared confine Tasso as a maniac. It is sad to read the various letters which he wrote, asking the death it was so long ere he obtained. Tasso was so peculiarly organised, that his talent became its owner's formidable foe. His genius dissected his own heart. He could not so have read the secrets of the soul if he had felt less sorrow. The man who has not suffered, says a prophet, what does he know? In some respects, Corinne resembled him. She was more cheerful and more versatile, but her imagination required extreme government: far from assuaging any grief, it lent each pang fresh might. Nevil deceived himself if he believed her brilliant faculties could give her means of happiness apart from her affections. When genius is united with true feeling, our talents multiply our woes. We analyze, we make discoveries, and, the heart's urn of tears being exhaustless, the more we think the more we feel it flow.
[CHAPTER VII.]
They embarked for Venice on the Brenta. At each side they beheld its palaces, grand but dilapidated, like all Italian magnificence. They are too wildly ornamented to remind us of the antique: Venetian architecture betrays a commerce with the East: there is a blendure of the Gothic and Moresco that takes the eye, though it offends the taste. The poplar, regular almost as architecture itself, borders the canals. The sky's bright blue sets off the splendid verdure of the country, which owes its green to the abundant waters. Nature seems to wear these two colors in mere coquetry; and the vague beauty of the South is found no more. Venice astonishes more than it pleases at first sight: it looks a city under water: and one can scarce admire the ambition which disputed this space with the sea. The amphitheatre of Naples is built as if to welcome it; but on the flats of Venice, steeples appear, like masts, immovable in the midst of waves. In entering the city, one takes leave of vegetation; one sees not even a fly there: all animals are banished; man alone remains to battle with the waves. In a city whose streets are all canals, the silence is profound—the dash of oars its only interruption. You cannot fancy yourself in the country, for you see no trees; nor in a town, for you hear no bustle; or even on board ship, for you make no way; but in a place which storms would convert into a prison—for there are times when you cannot leave the city, nor even your own house.
Many men in Venice never went from one quarter to another—never beheld St. Mark's—a horse or a tree were actual miracles to them. The black gondolas glide along like biers or cradles, the last and the first beds of human kind. At night, their dark color renders them invisible, and they are only traced by the reflection of the lights they carry—one might call them phantoms, guided by faint stars. In this abode all is mysterious—the government, the habits, love itself. Doubtless the heart and reason find much food when they can penetrate this secrecy, but strangers always feel the first impression singularly sad.
Corinne, who was a believer in presentiments, and now made presages of everything, said to Nevil: "Is not the melancholy that I feel on entering this place a proof that some great misfortune will befall me here?" As she said this, she heard three reports of cannon, from one of the Isles of the Lagune—she started, and inquired the cause of a gondolier—"It is a woman taking the veil," he said, "at one of those convents in the midst of the sea. The custom here is, that the moment such vow is uttered, the female throws the flowers she wore during the ceremony behind her, as a sign of her resigning the world, and the firing you have just heard announces this event." Corinne shuddered. Oswald felt her hand grow cold in his, and saw a deathlike pallor overspread her face.—"My life!" he cried, "why give this importance to so simple a chance?"—"It is not simple," she replied. "I, too, have thrown the flowers of youth behind me."—"How! when I love thee more than ever? when my whole soul is thine?"—"The thunders of war," she continued, "elsewhere devoted to victory or death, here celebrate the obscure sacrifice of a maiden—an innocent employment for the arms that shake the world with terror: a solemn message from a resigned woman to those of her sisters who still contend with fate."
[CHAPTER VIII.]
The power of the Venetian government, during its latter years, has almost entirely consisted in the empire of habit and association of ideas. It once was formidably daring,—it has become lenient and timorous: hate of its past potency is easily revived, and easily subdued, by the thoughts that its might is over. The aristocracy woo the favour of the people, and yet by a kind of despotism, since they rather amuse than enlighten them; an agreeable state enough, while the common herd are afforded no pleasures that can brutify their minds, while the government watches over its subjects like a sultan over his harem, forbidding them to meddle with politics, or presume to form any judgment of existing authorities, but allowing them sufficient diversion, and not a little glory. The spoils of Constantinople enrich the churches; the standards of Cyprus and Candia float over the Piazza; the Corinthian horses delight the eye; and the winged lion of St. Mark's appears the type of fame. The situation of the city rendering agriculture and the chase impossible, nothing is left for the Venetians but dissipation. Their dialect is soft and light as a zephyr. One can hardly conceive how the people who resisted the league of Cambray should speak so flexible a tongue: it is charming while expressive of graceful pleasantry, but suits not graver themes; verses on death, for instance, breathed in these delicate and almost infantine accents, sound more like the descriptions of poetic fable. The Venetians are the most intelligent men in Italy; they think more deeply, though with less ardent fancies than their southern countrymen; yet, for the most part, the women, though very agreeable, have acquired a sentimentality of language, which, without restraining their morals, merely lends their gallantry an air of affectation. There is more vanity, as there is more society, here, than in the rest of Italy. Where applause is quick and frequent, conceit calculates all debts instantaneously; knows what success is owed, and claims its due, without giving a minute's credit. Its bills must be paid at sight. Still, much originality may be found in Venice. Ladies of the highest rank receive visits in the cafés, and this strange confusion prevents their salons becoming the arenas of serious self-love. There yet remain here some ancient usages that evince a respect for their forefathers, and a certain youth of heart which tires not of the past, nor shrinks from melting recollections. The sight of the city itself is always sufficient to awaken a host of memories. The Piazza is crowded by blue tents, beneath which rest Turks, Greeks and Armenians, who sometimes also loll carelessly in open boats, with stands of flowers at their feet. St. Mark's, too, looks rather like a mosque than a Christian temple; and its vicinity gives a true idea of the oriental indolence with which life is spent here, in drinking sherbet, and smoking perfumed pipes.
Men and women of quality never leave their houses, except in black mantles; while the gondolas are often winged along by rowers clad in white, with rose-colored sashes, as if holiday array were abandoned to the vulgar, while the nobility kept up a vow of perpetual mourning. In most European towns, authors are obliged carefully to avoid depicting the daily routine; for our customs, even in luxury, are rarely poetic; but in Venice nothing appears coarse; the canals, the boats, make pictures of the commonest events in life.
On the quay of the galleys you constantly encounter puppet shows, mountebanks, and story-tellers; the last are worthy of remark. It is usually some episode from Tasso or Ariosto which they relate in prose, to the great admiration of their hearers, who sit round the speaker half clad, and motionless with curiosity; from time to time they purchase glasses of water, as wine is bought elsewhere, and this refreshment is all they take for hours, so strongly are their minds interested. The narrator uses the most animating gestures; his voice is raised; he irritates himself; he grows pathetic; and yet one sees, all the while, that at heart he is perfectly unmoved. One might say to him, as did Sappho to the Circean nymph, who, in perfect sobriety, was assuming fury: "Bacchante—who art not drunk—what wouldst thou with me?" Yet the lively pantomime of the south does not appear quite artificial: it is a singular habit handed down from the Romans, and springing from quickness of disposition. A people so enslaved by pleasure may soon be alarmed by the dream of power in which the Venetian government is veiled. Never are soldiers seen there. If even a drummer appears in their comedies they are all astonishment; yet a state inquisitor needs but to show himself to restore order among thirty thousand people, assembled for a public fête. It were well if this influence was derived from a respect for the laws; but it is fortified by terror of the secret means which may still be used to preserve the peace. The prisons are in the very palace of the Doge, above and below his apartments. The Lion's Mouth, into which all denunciations are thrown, is also here; the hall of trial is hung with black, and makes judgment appear anticipating condemnation.
The Bridge of Sighs leads from the palace to the state prison. In passing the canal, how oft were heard the cries of "Justice! Mercy!" in voices that could be no longer recognized. When a state criminal was sentenced, a bark removed him in the night, by a little gate that opens on the water: he was taken some distance from the city, to a part of the Lagune where fishing is prohibited, and there drowned: thus secrecy is perpetuated, even after death, not leaving the unhappy wretch a hope that his remains may inform those who loved him that he suffered, and is no more. When Lord Nevil and Corinne visited Venice, these executions had not taken place for nearly a century: but sufficient mystery still existed: and, though Oswald was the last man to interfere with the politics of foreign lands, he felt oppressed by this arbitrary power, from which there was no appeal, that seemed to hang over every head in Venice.
[CHAPTER IX.]
"You must not," said Corinne, "give way merely to the gloomy impressions which these silent proceedings have created; you ought also to observe the great qualities of this senate, which makes Venice a republic for nobles, and formerly inspired that aristocratic energy, the result of freedom, even though concentrated in the few. You will find them severe on one another, at least establishing, in their own breasts, the rights and virtues that should belong to all. You will see them as paternal towards their subjects as they can be, while merely considering that class of men with reference to physical prosperity. You will detect a great pride in the country which is their property, and an art of endearing it even to the people, whom they allow so few actual possessions there."
Corinne and Oswald visited the hall where the great council was then assembled. It is hung with portraits of the doges; on the space which would have been occupied by that of Faliero, who was beheaded as a traitor, is painted a black curtain, whereon is written the date and manner of his death. The regal magnificence of the other pictures adds to the effect of this ghastly pall. There is also a representation of the Last Judgment, another of the powerful emperor, Frederic Barbarossa, humbling himself to the Venetian senate. It was a fine idea, thus to unite all that can exalt pride upon earth, and bend it before Heaven.
They proceeded to the arsenal: before its gates are two Grecian lions, brought from Athens, to become the guardians of Venetian power. Motionless guardians, that defend but what they respect. This repository is full of marine trophies. The famous ceremony of the doge's marriage with the Adriatic, in fact, all the institutions, here attest their gratitude to the sea: in this respect they resemble the English, and Nevil strongly felt the similarity. Corinne now led him to the tower called the Steeple of St. Mark's, though some paces from the church. Thence is seen the whole city of the waves, and the huge embankment which defends it from inundation. The coasts of Istria and Dalmatia are in the distance. "Behind the clouds, on this side, lies Greece," said Corinne: "is not that thought enough to stir the heart? There, still, are men of lively, ardent characters, victims to fate; yet destined, perhaps, some day, to resuscitate the ashes of their sires. It is always something for a land to have been great; its natives blush at least beneath degradation; while, in a country never consecrated to fame, the inhabitants do not even suspect that there can be a nobler doom than the obscure servility bequeathed to them by their fathers. Dalmatia, which was of yore occupied by so warlike a race, still preserves something of the savage. Its natives are so little aware of the changes wrought by fifteen centuries, that they still deem the Romans 'all-powerful;' yet they betray more modern knowledge, by calling the English 'the heroes of the sea,' because you have so often landed in their ports; but they know nothing about the rest of the world. I love all realms where, in the manners, customs, language, something original is left. Civilized life is so monotonous; you know its secrets in so short a time; I have already lived long enough for that."—"Living with you," said Nevil, "can we ever behold the end of new thoughts and sensations?"—"God grant that such may prove exhaustless!" she replied, continuing: "Let us give one moment more to Dalmatia: when we descend from this height we shall still see the uncertain lines which mark that land, as indistinctly as a tender recollection in the memory of man. There are improvisatores among the Dalmatians as among the savages; they were found, too, with the Grecians, and almost always exist where there is much imagination, and little vanity. Natural talent turns rather to epigram, in countries where a fear of ridicule makes every man anxious to be the first who secures that weapon; but people thrown much with Nature feel a reverence for her that greatly nurtures fancy. 'Caverns are sacred,' say the Dalmatians; doubtless, thus expressing an indefinite terror of the old earth's secrets. Their poetry, Southerns though they be, resembles Ossian's; but there are only two ways of feeling the charms of nature. Men either animate and deify them, as did the ancients, beneath a thousand brilliant shapes, or, like the Scottish bards, yield to the melancholy fear inspired by the unknown. Since I met you, Oswald, this last manner has best pleased me. Formerly, I had vivacious hope enough to prefer a fearless enjoyment of smiling imagery."—"It is I, then," said Nevil, "who have withered the fair ideal, to which I owed the richest pleasures of my life."—"No, you are not in fault, but my own passion. Talent requires internal freedom, such as true love destroys."—"Ah! if you mean that your genius may lose its voice, and your heart but speak for me——" He could not proceed; the words promised more to his mind than he dared utter. Corinne guessed this, and would not answer, lest she should dissipate their present hopes. She felt herself beloved, and, used to live where men lose all for love, she was easily persuaded that Nevil could not leave her. At once ardent and indolent, she deemed a danger past which was no longer mentioned. She lived as many others do; who have been long menaced by the same misfortune, and think it will never happen, merely because it has not done so yet.
The air of Venice, and the life led there, is singularly calculated for lulling the mind into security: the very boats, peacefully rocking to and fro, induce a languid reverie; now and then a gondolier on the Rialto sings a stanza from Tasso; one of his fellows answers him, by the next verse, from the extremity of the canal. The very antique music they employ is like church psalmody, and monotonous enough when near; but, on the evening breeze, it floats over the waters like the last beams of the sun; and, aided by the sentiment it expresses, in such a scene, it cannot be heard without a gentle pensiveness. Oswald and Corinne remained on the canals, side by side, for hours; often without a word; holding each other's hands, and yielding to the formless dreams inspired by love and nature.