THE STATUES AND PICTURES.
[CHAPTER I.]
After such an evening, Oswald could not close his eyes all night. He had never been so near sacrificing everything to Corinne. He wished not even to learn her secret, until he had solemnly consecrated his life to her service; all indecision seemed banished, as he mentally composed the letter which he intended to write the next morning; but this resolved and happy confidence was not of long duration. His thoughts again strayed towards the past, reminding him that he had loved before; and though far less than he adored Corinne, nay, an object not to be compared with her, he had then been hurried into rashness that broke his father's heart. "How know I," he cried, "that he does not once more fear his son may forget his duty to his native land? Oh thou, the best friend I can ever call mine own!" he continued to the miniature of his parent, "I can no longer hear thy voice, yet teach me by that silent look, still—still so powerful over me, how I should act, that thou mayest gaze from heaven with some satisfaction on thy son. Yet, yet remember the thirst for happiness which consumes humanity; be but as indulgent in thy celestial home, as late thou wert on earth. I should become more worthy of thee, were my heart content; did I live with that angelic creature, had I the honor of protecting—saving such a woman! Save her?" he added, suddenly, "and from what? from the life she loves; a life of triumph, flattery, and freedom?" This reflection of his own scared him as if it had been spoken by the spirit of his sire. In situations like Oswald's, who has not felt that secret superstition which makes us regard our thoughts and sufferings as warnings from on high? Ah, what struggles beset the soul susceptible alike of passion and of conscience! He paced his chamber in cruel agitation; sometimes pausing to gaze on the soft and lovely moonlight of Italy. Nature's fair smile may render us resigned to everything but suspense. Day rose on his—and when d'Erfeuil and Edgarmond entered his room, so much had one night changed him, that both were alarmed for his health. The Count first broke silence. "I must confess," he said, "that I was charmed last evening. What a pity that such capabilities should be wasted on a woman of fortune! were Corinne but poor, free as she is, she might take to the stage, and be the glory of Italy." Oswald was grieved by this speech; yet knew not how to show it; for such was d'Erfeuil's peculiarity, that one could not legitimately object to aught he said, however great the pain and anger he awakened. It is only for feeling hearts to practise reciprocal indulgence. Self-love, so sensitive in its own cause, has rarely any sympathy to spare for others. Mr. Edgarmond spoke of Corinne in the most pleasing manner; and Nevil replied in English, to defend this theme from the uncongenial comments of d'Erfeuil, who exclaimed, "So, it seems, I am one too many here; well, I'll to the lady; she must be longing for my opinion of her Juliet. I have a few hints to give her, for future improvement; they relate merely to detail, but details do much towards a whole; and she is really so astonishing a woman, that I shall neglect nothing that can bring her to perfection. Indeed," he added, confidentially addressing Nevil, "I must encourage her to play frequently; it is the surest way of catching some foreigner of rank. You and I, dear Oswald, are too accustomed to fine girls for any one of them to lead us into such an absurdity; but a German prince, now, or a Spanish grandee—who knows? eh?" At these words Oswald started up, beside himself; and there is no telling what might have occurred had the Count guessed his impulse; but he was so satisfied with his own concluding remark, that he tripped from the room, without a suspicion of having offended Lord Nevil; had he dreamed of such a thing, he would assuredly have remained where he was, though he liked Oswald as well as he could like any one; but his undaunted valor contributed, still more than his conceit, to veil his defects from himself. With so much delicacy in all affairs of honor, he could not believe himself deficient in that of feeling; and having good right to consider himself brave and gentlemanly, he never calculated on any deeper qualities than his own. Not one cause of Oswald's agitation had escaped the eye of Edgarmond. As soon as they were alone, he said: "My dear Nevil, good-bye! I'm off for Naples."—"So soon?" exclaimed his friend. "Yes, it is not good for me to stay here; for even at fifty, I am not sure that I should not go mad for Corinne."—"And what then?"—"Why then, such a woman is not fit to live in Wales; believe me, dear Oswald, none but English wives will do for England. It is not for me to advise, and I scarce need say that I shall never allude there to what I have seen here; but Corinne, all-charming as she is, makes me think, with Walpole, 'Of what use would she be in a house? Now the house is everything with us, you know, at least to our wives. Can you fancy your lovely Italian remaining quietly at home, while fox-hunts or debates took you abroad? or leaving you at your wine, to make tea against your rising from table? Dear Oswald, the domestic worth of our women you will never find elsewhere. Here men have nothing to do but to please the ladies; therefore, the more agreeable they find them, the better; but with us, where men lead active lives, the women should bloom in the shade; to which it were a thousand pities if Corinne were condemned. I would place her on the English throne, not beneath my humble roof. My Lord! I knew your mother, whom your respected father so much regretted; just such a woman will be my young cousin; and that is the wife I would choose, were I still of an age to be beloved. Farewell, my dear Nevil; do not take what I have said amiss, for no one can admire Corinne more than I do; nay, perhaps, at your years, I should not be able to give up the hope of winning her." He pressed his young friend's hand very cordially, and left him, ere Oswald could utter a word; but Edgarmond understood the cause of this silence, and, content with the grasp which replied to his, was glad to conclude a conversation which had cost him no slight pain. The only portion of what he had said that reached the heart of Oswald, was the mention of his mother, and the deep affection his father felt for her. She had died ere their child was fourteen; yet he reveringly recalled the retiring virtues of her character. "Madman that I am!" he cried, "I desired to know what kind of wife my father had destined me, and I am answered by the image of his own, whom he adored. What would I more, then? why deceive myself? why pretend an ignorance of what he would think now, could I yet consult him?" Still, it was with terror that he thought of returning to Corinne, without giving her a confirmation of the sentiments he had testified. The tumult of his breast became at last so uncontrollable, that it occasioned a recurrence of the distressing accident against which he now believed his lungs secure. One may imagine the frightful scene—his alarmed domestics calling for help, as he lay silently hoping that death would end his sorrow. "If I could die, once more looking on Corinne," he thought, "once more called her Romeo." A few tears fell from his eyes, the first that any grief, save the loss of his father, had cost him since that event. He wrote a melancholy line accounting for his absence, to Corinne. She had began the day with fond delusive hopes. Believing herself loved, she was content; for she knew not very clearly what more on earth she wished. A thousand circumstances blended the thought of marrying Oswald with fear; and, as her nature was the present's slave, too heedless of the future, the day which was to load her with such care, rose like the purest, calmest of her life. On receiving his note, how were her feelings changed! She deemed him in great danger, and instantly, on foot, crossed the then crowded Corso, entering his abode before all the eyes of Rome. She had not given herself time to think, but walked so rapidly, that when she reached his chamber she could neither speak nor breathe. He comprehended all she had risked for his sake, and overrated the consequences of an act which in England would have ruined a woman's fame, especially if unwed: transported by generosity and gratitude, he raised himself, weak as he was, pressed her to his heart, and murmured, "Dear love! leave thee? now that thou hast compromised thyself?—no, no!—let my reparation——" She read his thought, and gently withdrawing from his arms, first ascertained that he was better than she had expected, then said gravely: "You mistake, my Lord! in coming to you I have done no more than the greatest number of women in Rome would have done in my place. Here, you know none but me. I heard you were ill; it is my duty to nurse you. Ceremony should be obeyed, indeed, when it sacrifices but one's self, yet ought to yield before the higher feelings due to the grief or danger of a friend. What would be the lot of a woman, if the same laws which permitted her to love forbade her to indulge the resistless impulse of flying to the aid of those most dear to her? I repeat, my Lord, fear nothing for me! My age and talents give me the freedoms of a married female. I do not conceal from my friends that I am here. I know not if they blame me for loving you, but surely, as I do, they cannot blame my devotion to you now." This sincere and natural reply filled Oswald's heart with most contrasted emotions: touched as he was by its delicacy, he was half disappointed. He would have found a pretext in her peril—a necessity for terminating his own doubts. He mused with displeasure on Italian liberty, which prolonged them thus, by permitting him so much favor, without imposing any bonds in return. He wished that honor had commanded him to follow inclination. These troublous thoughts caused him a severe relapse. Corinne, though suffering the most intense anxiety, lavished the fondest cares on his revival. Towards evening he was still more oppressed; she knelt beside his couch, supporting his head upon her bosom, though far more pitiable than himself. Oft as he gazed on her, did a look of rapture break through all his pangs. "Corinne," he whispered, "here are some papers—you shall read to me—written by my father on Death. Think not," he added, as he marked her dismay, "that I believe myself dying; but whenever I am ill I reperuse these consolations, and seem again to hear them from his lips; besides, my dearest, I wish you to know what a man he was; you will the better comprehend my regret, his empire over me—all that I will some day confide to you." Corinne took the papers, which Oswald always carried about him, and with a faltering voice began——
"Oh, ye just! beloved of the Lord! ye speak of death without a fear; to you it is but a change of homes; and this ye leave may be the least of all. Innumerable worlds that shine through yon infinitude of space! unknown communities of His creatures—children! strewn through the firmament, ranged beneath its concave, let our praises rise with yours! We know not your condition, nor your share of God's free bounty; but in thinking over life and death, the past, the future, we participate in the interests of all intelligent, all sentient beings, however distant be their dwelling-places. Assembled spheres! wide-scattered families! ye sing with us, Glory to the Lord of heaven! the King of earth! the Spirit of the universe! whose will transforms sterility to harvest, darkness to light, and death to life eternal. Assuredly the end of the just man deserves our envy; but few of us, or of our sires before us, have looked on such a death. Where is he who shall meet the eye of Omnipotence unawed? Where is he who hath loved God without once wavering? Who served him from his youth up, and, in his age, finds nothing to remember with remorse? Where is the man, in all his actions moral, who has not been led by flattery, or scared by slander? So rare a model were worthy of imitation; but where exists it? If such be amongst us, how ought our respect to follow him! Let us beg to be present at his death, as at the loveliest of human spectacles. Take courage, and surround the bed, whence he will rise no more! He knows it, yet is all serene: a heavenly halo seems to crown his brow. He says, with the Apostle, 'I know in whom I have believed;' and this reliance, as his strength decays, lights up his features still. Already he beholds his celestial home, yet unforgetful of the one he leaves. He is God's own; but turns not stoically from ties that lent a charm to his past life. His faithful partner, by the law of nature, will be the first to follow him. He dries her tears, and tells her they shall meet in heaven! even there unable to expect felicity without her. Next, he reminds her of the happy days that they have led together; not to afflict the heart of such dear friend, but to increase their mutual confidence in their Lord's pardoning grace. The tender love he ever bore his life's companion now seeks to soften her regrets; to bid her revel in the sweet idea that their two beings grew from the same stem; and that this union may prove one defence, one guarantee the more, against the terrors of that dark futurity wherein God's pity is the sole refuge of our startled thoughts. But how conceive the thousand feelings that pierce a constant heart, when one vast solitude appears before it? and all the interests that have filled past years are vanishing forever? O thou, who must survive this second self, Heaven lent for thy support! who was thine all, and whose looks now bid thee a sad adieu! thou wilt not shrink from laying thy hand upon the fainting heart, whose latest pulse, after the death of words, speaks it thine own. Shall we then blame you if you wish your dust might mingle? All-gracious Deity! awaken them together. Or, if but one deserves thy favoring call to number with the elect, let but the other learn these blissful tidings; read them in angel light one fleeting instant, and he will sink resigned back to perpetual gloom. Perhaps I err in this essay to paint the last hours of such a man, who sees the advancing strides of death, and feels that he must part from all he holds most dear. He struggles for a momentary strength, that his last words may serve to instruct his children. 'Fear not,' he says, 'to watch your sire's release, to lose your oldest friend; it is by God's ordinance he goes before you, from a world into which he came the first. He would fain teach you courage, though he weeps to say farewell: he could have wished to stay and aid you longer, by experience to have led you some steps further on the way surrounded by such perils for your youth; but life has no defence against its Giver's mandate. You will proceed alone in a wide world, where I shall be no more. May you abundantly reap all the blessings that Providence has sown there! But never forget that this world is a land through which we only journey to our home. Let us hope to meet again. May our Father accept the sacrifice I tender, in your cause, of all my vows and tears! Cling to religion! Trust its promises! Love it, as the last link betwixt child and parent; betwixt life and death! Draw near me, that I may see you still. The benediction of an humble Christian rest with you all!' He dies! Angels, receive his soul, and leave us here the memory of his deeds, his faith, his chastened hope."[1]
The emotions of Oswald and Corinne had frequently interrupted their progress: at last they were obliged to give up the attempt. She trembled lest he should harm himself by weeping, unconscious that her tears flowed fast as his. "Yes," sobbed Nevil; "yes, sweetest friend of my bosom, the floods of our hearts have mingled; you have mourned with me that guardian saint whose last embrace yet thrills my breast, whose noble countenance I still behold. Perhaps he has chosen thee for my solace."—"No, no," exclaimed Corinne; "he did not think me worthy."—"What say you?" interrupted Oswald; and, alarmed lest she had betrayed herself, she replied: "He might not have thought me worthy of you." This slight change of phrase dissipated his uneasiness, and he fearlessly continued speaking of his father. The physicians arrived, and slightly reassured him; but absolutely forbade his attempting to converse, until his internal hurt was healed. Six whole days passed, during which Corinne never left him. With gentle firmness she enjoined his silence, yet contrived to vary the hours by reading, music, and sometimes by a sportive dialogue, in which she sustained both parts; serious or gay, it was for his sake that she supported herself, veiling beneath a thousand graceful arts the solicitude which consumed her; she was never off her guard for an instant. She perceived what Oswald suffered, almost before himself: the courage he assumed deceived her not: she did, indeed, "anticipate the asking eye," while her chief endeavor was that of diverting his mind, as much as possible, from the value of these tender offices. If he turned pale, the rose fled from her lip, and her hand trembled as she brought him a restorative: even then would she smile through her tears, and press his hand to her heart, as if she would fain have added her stock of life to his. At last her efforts succeeded: he recovered. "Corinne," he said, as soon as permitted to speak, "why has not my friend Edgarmond witnessed your conduct? he would have seen that you are not less good than great; that domestic life with you would be a perpetual enchantment; that you differ from our women only in adding charms to virtue. It is too much! here ends the combat that so nearly reduced me to the grave. Corinne! you, who conceal your own secrets, shall hear all mine, and pronounce our doom."—"Our doom," she replied, "if you feel as I do, is—not to part; yet believe me, till now, at least, I have never dared to wish myself your wife: the scheme of my existence is entirely disordered by the love that every day enslaves me more and more; yet I know not if we ought to marry."—"Corinne," he cried, "do you despise me for having hesitated? Can you attribute my delay to contemptible motives? Have you not guessed that the deep remorse to which I have been for two years a prey alone has been the cause?"—"I know it," she answered. "Had I suspected you of considerations foreign to those of the heart, you would not have been dear to me. But life, I know, belongs not all to love; habit and memory weave such nets around us that even passion cannot quite destroy: broken for a moment, they will grow again, as the ivy clasps the oak. My dear Oswald! let us give no epoch of life more than it requires. At this, it is essential to me that you leave me not. The dread of a sudden separation incessantly pursues me. You are a stranger here; no ties detain you: if once you go, all is over; nothing will be left to me of you, but my own grief. Nature, the arts, poetry, all that I have shared with you, lately, alas! with you alone, will speak no longer to my soul! I never wake without trembling. I ask the fair day if it has still a right to shine; if you, the sun of my being, are near me yet? Oswald, remove this fear, and I will not look beyond the present's sweet security."—"You know," replied he, "that no Englishman should renounce his country: war may recall me."—"O God!" she cried, "would you prepare my mind?" Her limbs quivered, as if at the approach of the most terrific danger. "If it be even so," she added, "take me with you—as your wife—your slave!" Then suddenly regaining her spirits, she continued: "Oswald, you will never depart without warning me? Never! will you? Listen! in no country is a criminal led to torture without being allowed some hours to collect his thoughts. It must not be by letter: you will come yourself, to tell me, to hear me, ere you fly? How! you hesitate to grant my prayer?" "No," returned he, "you wish it; and I swear, if my departure be necessary, I will apprise you of it, and that moment shall decide our fate." She left him.
[1] I have allowed myself to borrow some passages from a discourse on death, which may be found in "The Course of Religious Morals," by M. Necker. Another work of his, "The Importance of Religious Opinions," had a more brilliant success, and is sometimes confused with this, which appeared when public interest was distracted by political events; but I dare affirm, that "The Course of Religious Morals" is my father's most eloquent production. No statesman, I believe, ever before composed volumes for the Christian pulpit; and this kind of writing, from a man who had so much to do with men, shows a knowledge of the human heart, and the indulgence that knowledge inspires. It appears that, in two respects, these Essays are completely original. A religious man is usually a recluse. Men of the world are seldom religious. Where, then, shall we find united such observation of life, and such elevation of soul, that looks beyond it? I should say, fearless of finding my opinion attributed to partiality, that this book is one of the first among those which console the feeling heart, and interest the reflective mind, on the great questions which are incessantly agitating them both.
[CHAPTER II.]
Corinne now carefully avoided all explanations. She wished to render her lover's life as calm as possible. Their every interview had tended to convince her that the disclosure of what she had been, and sacrificed, was but too likely to make an unfavorable impression; she, therefore, sought again to interest him in the still unseen wonders of Rome, and thus retard the instant that must clear all doubts. Such a situation would be insupportable beneath any other feeling than love, which sheds such spells over every minute, that, though still desiring some indefinite futurity, we receive a day as a century of joy, and pain, so full of sensations and ideas is each succeeding morrow. Love is the emblem of eternity: it confounds all notion of time: effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end: we fancy that we have always possessed what we love, so difficult is it to imagine how we could have lived without it. The more terrible separation seems, the less probable it becomes: like death, it is an evil we rather name than believe, as if the inevitable were impossible. Corinne, who, in her innocent artifice for varying Oswald's amusements, had hitherto reserved the statues and paintings, now proposed taking him to see them, as his health was sufficiently re-established.—"It is shameful," she said, with a smile, "that you should be still so ignorant; therefore to-morrow we will commence our tour through the galleries and museums."—"As you will," replied Nevil; "but, indeed, Corinne, you want not the aid of such resources to keep me with you; on the contrary, I make a sacrifice to obey you, in turning my gaze to any other object, be it what it may."
They went first to the Vatican, that palace of sculpture, where the human form shines deified by paganism, as are the virtues by Christianity. In those silent halls are assembled gods and heroes; while beauty, in eternal sleep, looks as if dreaming of herself were the sole pleasure she required. As we contemplate these admirable forms and features, the design of the Divinity, in creating man, seems revealed by the noble person he has deigned to bestow on him. The soul is elevated by hopes full of chaste enthusiasm; for beauty is a portion of the universe, which, beneath whatever guise presented, awakes religion in the heart of man. What poetry invests a face where the most sublime expression is fixed forever, where the grandest thoughts are enshrined in images so worthy of them! Sometimes an ancient sculptor completed but one statue in his life; that constituted his history. He daily added to its perfection: if he loved or was beloved; if he derived fresh ideas from art or nature, they served but to embellish the features of this idol. He translated into looks all the feelings of his soul. Grief, in the present state of society so cold and oppressive, then actually ennobled its victim; indeed, to this day the being who has not suffered can never have thought or felt. But the ancients dignified grief by heroic composure, a sense of their own strength, developed by their public freedom. The loveliest Grecian statues were mostly expressive of repose. The Laöcoon and the Niobe are among the few stamped by sorrow; but it is the vengeance of Heaven, and not human passion, that they both recall. The moral being was so well organized of old, the air circulated so freely in those manly chests, and political order so harmonized with such faculties, that those times scarce ever, like our own, produced discontented men. Subtle as were the ideas then discovered, the arts were furnished with none but those primitive affections which alone can be typified by eternal marble. Hardly can a trace of melancholy be found on their statues. A head of Apollo, in the Justinian palace, and one of the dying Alexander, indeed, betray both thoughtfulness and pain; but they belonged to the period of Grecian slavery, which banished the tranquil pride that usually pervaded both their sculpture and their poetry. Thought, unfed from without, preys on itself, digging up and analyzing its own treasures; but it has not the creative power which happiness alone can give. Even the antique sarcophagii of the Vatican teem but with martial or joyous images; the commemoration of an active life they thought the best homage they could pay the dead—nothing weakened or discouraged the living. Emulation was the reigning principle in art as in policy; there was room for all the virtues, as for all the talents. The vulgar prided in the ability to admire, and genius was worshipped even by those who could not aspire to its palm. Grecian religion was not, like Christianity, the solace of misery, the wealth of the poor, the future of the dying: it required glory and triumph; it formed the apotheosis of man. In this perishable creed, even beauty was a dogma; artists, called on to represent base or ferocious passions, shielded the human form from degradation by blending it with the animal, as in the satyrs and centaurs. On the contrary, when seeking to realize an unusual sublimity, they united the charms of both sexes; as in the warlike Minerva, and the Apollo Musagets; felicitous propinquity of vigor and sweetness, without which neither quality can attain perfection! Corinne delayed Oswald some time before the sleeping figures that adorn the tombs, in the manner most favorable to their art. She observed that statues representing an action suspended at its height, an impulse suddenly checked, create, sometimes, a painful astonishment; but an attitude of complete repose offers an image that thoroughly accords with the influence of southern skies. The arts there seem but the peaceful spectators of nature; and genius itself, which agitates a northern breast, there appears but one harmony the more. Oswald and Corinne entered the court in which the sculptured animals are assembled with the statue of Tiberius in the midst of them: this arrangement was made without premeditation; the creatures seemed to have ranged themselves around their master. Another such hall contains the gloomy works of the Egyptians, resembling mummies more that men. This people, as much as possible, assimilated life with death, and lent no animation to their human effigies; that province of art appeared to them inaccessible. About the porticos of this museum each step presents new wonders; vases, altars, ornaments of all kinds, surround the Apollo, the Laöcoon, and the Muses. Here may one learn to appreciate Homer and Sophocles, attaining a knowledge of antiquity that cannot be elsewhere acquired. Amid these porticos are fountains, whose incessant flow gently reminds you of past hours; it is two thousand years since the artists of these chefs-d'œuvres existed. But the most melancholy sights here are the broken statues, the torso of Hercules, heads separated from their trunks; the foot of a Jupiter, which it is supposed must have belonged to the largest and most symmetrical statue ever known. One sees the battle-field whereon Time contended with Glory; these mutilated limbs attesting the tyrant's victory, and our own losses. After leaving the Vatican, Corinne led Oswald to the colossal figures on Monte Cavallo, said to be those of Castor and Pollux. Each of these heroes governs a foaming steed with one hand: this struggle of man with brute, like all the works of the ancients, finely exemplifying the physical powers of human nature, which had then a dignity it no longer possesses. Bodily exercises are generally abandoned to our common people; personal vigor, in the antique, appeared so intimately connected with the moral qualities of those who lived in the heart of war, a war of single combats, that generosity, fierceness, command, and height of stature, seemed inseparable, ere intellectual religion had throned man's potency in his soul. As the gods wore our shape, every attribute appears symbolical: the "brawns of Hercules" suggest no recollections of vulgar life, but of divine, almighty will, clothed in supernatural grandeur.
Corinne and Oswald finished their day by visiting the studio of the great Canova. The statues gained much from being seen by torchlight, as the ancients must have thought, who placed them in their Thermes, inaccessible to the day. A deeper shade thus softens the brilliant uniformity of the marble: its pallor looks more like that of life. At that time Canova had just achieved an exquisite figure, intended for a tomb; it represented Grief leaning on a Lion. Corinne detected a resemblance to Nevil, with which the artist himself was struck. Our Englishman turned away his head, to avoid this kind of attention, whispering to his beloved: "Corinne, I believed myself condemned to this eternal grief ere I met you, who have so changed me, that sometimes hope, and always a delicious agitation, pervades the heart that ought to be devoted to regret."
[CHAPTER III.]
In painting, the wealth of Rome surpasses that of the rest of the world. Only one point of discussion can exist on the effect which her pictures produce—does the nature of the subjects selected by Italy's great masters admit the varied originality of passion which painting can express? The difference of opinion between Oswald and Corinne on this point, as on others, sprung but from the difference of their countries and creeds. Corinne affirmed that Scripture subjects were those most favorable to the painter; that sculpture was the Pagan's art, and painting the Christian's; that Michael Angelo, the painter of the Old, and Raphael, that of the New Testament, must have been gifted with sensibility profound as that of Shakspeare or Racine. "Sculpture," she said, "can present but a simple or energetic life to the eye, while painting displays the mysteries of retirement and resignation, and makes the immortal spirit speak through the fleeting colors. Historical facts, or incidents drawn from the poets, are rarely picturesque. One had need, in order to understand them, to keep up the custom of writing the speeches of their personages on ribbons rolling from their mouths. But religious pieces are instantly comprehended by the whole world; and our attention is not turned from the art, in order to divine their meaning.
"The generality of modern painters are too theatrical. They bear the stamp of an age in which the unity of existence and natural way of life, familiar to Andrew Mantegne, Perugin, and Leonardo da Vinci, is entirely forgotten. To this antique repose they were wont to add the depth of feeling which marks Christianity. For this I admire the compositions of Raphael, especially in his early works. All the figures tend towards the main object, without being elaborately grouped to create a sensation—this honesty in the arts, as in all things else, characterizes true genius; for speculations on success usually destroy enthusiasm. There is a rhetoric in painting as in poetry; and those who have it not seek to veil the defect in brilliant but illusive auxiliaries, rich costume, remarkable postures, while an unpretending virgin, with her infant at her breast, an old man attending the mass of Bolsena, a young one leaning on his staff, in the school of Athens, or Saint Cecilia raising her eyes to heaven, by the mere force of expression, act most powerfully on the mind. These natural beauties grow on us each day, while of works done for effect our first sight is always the most striking."[1] Corinne fortified these reflections by another—it was the impossibility of our sympathizing with the mythology of the Greeks and Romans, or inventing on their ground. "We may imitate them by study," she said; "but the wings of genius cannot be restrained to flights for which learning and memory are so indispensable, and wherein it can but copy books or statues. Now, in pictures alluding to our own history and faith, the painter is personally inspired; feeling what he depicts, retracing what he has seen, he draws from the life. Portraitures of piety are mental blessings that no others could replace; as they assure us that the artist's genius was animated by the holy zeal which alone can support us against the disgusts of life and the injustice of man."
Oswald could not, in all respects, agree with her; he was almost scandalized at seeing that Michael Angelo had attempted to represent the Deity himself in mortal shape; he did not think that we should dare embody Him; and could scarcely call up one thought sufficiently ethereal thus to ascend towards the Supreme Being, though he felt that images of this kind, in painting, always leave us much to desire. He believed, with Corinne, that religious meditation is the most heartfelt sentiment we can experience, and that which supplies a painter with the grandest physiognomical mysteries; but as religion represses all movements of the heart to which she has not given birth, the faces of saints and martyrs cannot be much varied. Humility, so lovely in the sight of Heaven, weakens the energy of earthly passion, and necessarily monotonizes the generality of scriptural subjects. When the terrible Angelo dealt with them, he almost changed their spirit, giving to his prophets that formidable air more suitable to heathen gods than to saints. Oft, too, like Dante, he mixed Pagan attributes with those of Christianity. One of the most affecting truths in its early establishment is the lowly station of the apostles who preached it, the slavery of the Jews, so long depositaries of the promise that announced the Saviour. This contrast between insignificance of means and greatness of result is morally beautiful. Yet in painting, where means alone can be displayed, Christian subjects must needs prove less attractive than those derived from the times of heroic fable. Of all arts, none save music can be purely religious. Painting cannot be content with an expression indefinite as that of sound. It is true that a happy combination of colors, and of clair-obscure, is harmony to the eye; but as it shows us life, it should give forth life's strong and varied passions. Undoubtedly, such passages of history ought to be selected as are too well known to be unintelligible: facts must flash on us from canvas, for all the pleasures the fine arts bestow are thus immediate; but with this equality provided, historical pictures have the advantage of diversified situation and sentiments. Nevil asserted, too, that a preference should be given to scenes from tragedies, or the most touching poetic fictions, so that all the pleasures of imagination might thus unite. Corinne contended against this opinion, seducing as it was; convinced that the encroachment of one art upon another would be mutually injurious. For sculpture loses by attempting the groups that belong to painting; painting, by aspiring to dramatic animation. The arts are limited, not in their powers but in their means. Genius seeks not to vanquish the fitness of things which its glory consists in guessing. "You, my dear Oswald," said Corinne, "love not the arts for themselves, but as they accord with your own feelings; you are moved merely when they remind you of your heart's afflictions. Music and poetry better suit such a disposition than those which speak to the eye, however ideally; they can but please or interest us while our minds are calm and our fancy is free. We need not the gayety which society confers in order to enjoy them, but the composure born of soft and radiant climes. We ought, in the arts that represent exterior objects, to feel the universal harmony of nature, which, while we are distressed, we have not within ourselves."—"I know not," answered Oswald, "if I have sought food for my sorrows in the arts, but at least I am sure that I cannot endure their reminding me of physical suffering. My strongest objection against Scripture pictures is the pain I feel in looking on blood and tortures, however exalted the faith of their victims. Philoctetus is, perhaps, the only tragic subject in which such agonies can be admitted; but with how much of poetry are his cruel pangs invested! They are caused by the darts of Hercules; and surely the son of Esculapius can cure them. His wounds are so associated with the moral resentment they stir in that pierced breast, that they can excite no symptom of disgust. But the Possessed, in Raphael's 'Transfiguration' is disagreeable and undignified. We would fain discover the charm or grief, or fancy it like the melancholy of prosperity. It is the ideal of human fate that ought to appear. Nothing is more revolting than ensanguined gashes or muscular convulsions. In such pictures we at once miss and dread to find exactitude of imitation. What pleasure could such attempted fidelity bestow? it is always either more horrible or less lovely than nature herself."—"You are right, my Lord," said Corinne, "in wishing that these blots should be effaced from Christian pictures; they are unnecessary. Nevertheless, allow that soul-felt genius can triumph over them all. Look on the death of St. Jerome, by Dominichino; that venerable frame is livid, emaciated; but life eternal fills his aspect; and the miseries of the world are here collected but to melt before the hallowed rays of devotion. Yet, dear Oswald, though I am not wholly of your mind, I wish to show you that even in differing, we have always some analogy. I have attempted a realization of your ideal in the gallery to which my brothers in art have contributed, and where I have sketched a few designs myself; you shall see the advantages and defects of the styles you prefer in my house at Tivoli. The weather is fine; shall we go there to-morrow?"—"My love, can you doubt my reply?" he exclaimed. "Have I another blessing in the world but you? The life I have too much freed from other occupations is now filled by the felicity of seeing and of hearing my Corinne!"
[1] From a journal called "Europe," I have derived many valuable observations on painting—an inexhaustible subject for their author, M. Frederic Schlegel, and for German reasoners in general.
[CHAPTER IV.]
Oswald himself drove the four horses that drew them next day towards Tivoli; he delighted in their rapid course, which seemed to lend fresh vivacity to the sense of existence—an impression so sweet when enjoyed beside those we love. He was careful, even to fear, least the slightest accident should befall his charge—that protecting air is such a link betwixt man and woman! Corinne, though less easily alarmed than the rest of her sex, observed his solicitude with such pleasure as made her almost wish she could be frightened, that she might claim the reassurances of Oswald. What gave him so great an ascendency over her, was the occasional unexpected contrasts with himself, that lent a peculiar charm to his whole manner. Every one admired his mind and person; but both were particularly interesting to a woman at once thus constant and versatile. Though occupied by nothing but Corinne, this same interest perpetually assumed a new character: sometimes reserve predominated; then he abandoned himself to his passion; anon, he was perfectly amiable and content; as probably, by a gloomy bitterness, betrayed the sincerity of his distress. Agitated at heart, he strove to appear serene, and left her to guess the secrets of his bosom. This kept her curiosity forever on the alert. His very faults set off his merits; and no man, however agreeable, who was devoid of these contradictions and inconsistencies, could thus have captivated Corinne: she was subdued by her fear of him. He reigned in her heart by a good and by an evil power—by his own qualities, and by the anxiety their ill-regulated state inspired. There was no safety in the happiness he bestowed. This, perhaps, accounts for the exaltation of her love; she might not have thus adored aught she did not fear to lose. A mind of ardent yet delicate sensibility may weary of all save a being whose own, forever in motion, appears like a heaven, now clear and smiling, now lapped in threatening clouds. Oswald, ever truly, deeply attached, was not the less often on the brink of abjuring the object of his tenderness, because long habit had persuaded him that he could find nothing but remorse in the too vivid feelings of his breast.
On their way to Tivoli, they passed the ruins of Adrian's palace, and the immense garden that surrounded it. Here were collected the rarest productions of the realms conquered by Rome. There are still seen the scattered stones called Egypt, India, and Asia. Further off is the retreat where Zenobia ended her days. The queen of Palmyra sustained not, in adversity, the greatness of her doom: she knew neither how to die for glory, like a man; nor how, like a woman, to die rather than betray her friend. At last they beheld Tivoli, once the abode of Brutus, Augustus, Mæcenas, Catullus, but, above all, Horace, whose verses have immortalized these scenes. Corinne's villa stood near the loud cascade of Teverone. On the top of the hill, facing her garden, was the Sibyl's temple. The ancients, by building these fanes on heights like this, suggested the due superiority of religion over all other pursuits. They bid you "look from nature up to nature's God," and tell of the gratitude that successive generations have paid to Heaven. The landscape, seen from whatever point, includes this its central ornament. Such ruins remind one not of the work of man. They harmonize with the fair trees and lonely torrent, that emblem of the years which have made them what they are. The most beauteous land, that awoke no memory of great events, were uninteresting, compared with every spot that history sanctifies. What place could more appropriately have been selected as the home of Corinne than that consecrated to the Sibyl, a woman divinely inspired? The house was charming; decked in all the elegance of modern taste, yet evidently by a classic hand. You saw that its mistress understood felicity in its highest signification; that which implies all that can ennoble, while it excites our minds. A sighing melody now stole on Oswald's ear, as if the nodding flowers and waving shrubs thus lent a voice to nature. Corinne informed him that it proceeded from the Eolian harps, which she had hung in her grottos, adding music to the perfume of the air. Her lover was entranced. "Corinne," he cried, throwing himself at her feet, "till to-day I have censured mine own bliss beside thee; but now I feel as if the prayers of mine offended parent had won me all this favor; the chaste repose I here enjoy tells me that I am pardoned. Fearlessly, then, unite thy fate with mine; there is no danger now!"—"Well," she replied, "let us not disturb this peace by naming Fate. Why strive to gain more than she ever grants? Why seek for change while we are happy?" He was hurt by this reply. He thought she should have understood his readiness to confide, to promise, all. This evasion, then, offended and afflicted him: he appreciated not the delicacy which forbade Corinne to profit by his weakness. Where we really love, we often dread more than we desire the solemn moment that exchanges hope for certainty. Oswald, however, concluded that, much as she loved him, she preferred her independence, and therefore shunned an indissoluble tie. Irritated by this mistake, he followed her to the gallery in frigid silence. She guessed his mood, but knew his pride too well to tell him so; yet, with a vague design of soothing him, she lent even to general and indifferent topics the softest tones of affection.
Her gallery was composed of historical, poetic, religious subjects, and landscapes. None of them contained any great number of figures. Crowded pictures are, doubtless, arduous tasks; but their beauties are mostly either too confused or too detailed. Unity of interest, that vital principle of art, as of all things, is necessarily frittered away. The first picture represented Brutus, sitting lost in thought, at the foot of the statue of Rome, while slaves bore by the dead bodies of the sons he had condemned; on the other side, their mother and sisters stood in frantic despair, fortunately excused, by their sex, from that courage which sacrifices the affections. The situation of Brutus beneath the statue of Rome tells all. But how, without explanation, can we know that this is Brutus, or that, those are his children, whom he himself has sentenced? and yet the event cannot be better set forth by any painting. Rome fills its background, as yet unornamented as a city, grand only as the country that could inspire such heroism. "Once hear the name," said Corrine, "and doubtless your whole soul is given up to it; otherwise might not uncertainty have converted a pleasure which ought to be so plain and so easy into an abstruse enigma? I chose the subject, as recalling the most terrible deed a patriot ever dared. The next is Marius, taken by one of the Cimbri, who cannot resolve to kill so great a man. Marius, indeed, is an imposing figure; the costume and physiognomy of the Cimbri leader extremely picturesque; it marks the second era of Rome, when laws were no more, but when genius still exerted a vast control. Next come the days in which glory led but to misfortune and insult. The third picture is Belisarius, bearing his young guide, who had expired while asking alms for him; thus is the blind hero recompensed by his master; and in the world he vanquished hath no better office than that of carrying to the grave the sad remains of yon poor boy, his only faithful friend. Since the old school, I have seen no truer figure than that; the painter, like the poet, has loaded him with all kinds of miseries—too many, it may be, for compassion. But what tells us that it is Belisarius? what fidelity to history is exacted both of artist and spectator! a fidelity, by the way, often ruinous to the beautiful. In Brutus, we look on virtues that resemble crime; in Marius on fame causing but distress; in Belisarius, on services requited by the blackest persecution. Near these I have hung two pictures that console the oppressed spirit by reminding it of the piety that can cheer the broken heart, when all around is bondage. The first is Albano's infant Christ asleep on the cross. Does not that stainless, smiling face convince us that heavenly faith hath naught to fear from grief or death? The following one is Titian's Jesus bending under the weight of the cross. His mother on her knees before him—what a proof of reverence for the undeserved oppressions suffered by her Divine Son! What a look of resignation is his! yet what an air of pain, and therefore sympathy, with us! That is the best of all my pictures; to that I turn my eyes with rapture inexhaustible; and now come my dramatic chefs-d'œuvre, drawn from the works of four great poets. There is the meeting of Dido and Æneas in the Elysian fields; her indignant shade avoids him; rejoicing to be freed from the fond heart which yet would throb at his approach. The vaporous color of the phantoms and the pale scenes around them, contrast the air of life in Æneas, and the Sibyl who conducts him; but in these attempts the bard's description must far transcend all that the pencil reaches; in this, of the dying Clorinda, our tears are claimed by the remembered lines of Tasso, where she pardons the beloved Tancred, who has just dealt her the mortal wound. Painting inevitably sinks beneath poetry, when devoted to themes that great authors have already treated. One glance back at their words effaces all before us. Their favorite situations gain force from impassioned eloquence; while picturesque effect is most favored by moments of repose, worthy to be indefinitely prolonged, and too perfect for the eye ever to weary of their grace. Your terrific Shakspeare, my Lord, afforded the ensuing subject. The invincible Macbeth, about to fight Macduff, learns that the witches have equivocated with him; that Birnam wood is coming to Dunsinane, and that his adversary was not of woman born, but 'untimely ripped' from his dying mother.[1] Macbeth is subdued by his fate, not by his foe; his desperate hand still grasps its glaive, certain that he must fall, yet to the last, opposing human strength against the might of demons. There is a world of fury and of troubled energy in that countenance—but how many of the poet's beauties do we lose! Can we paint Macbeth hurried into crime by the dreams of ambition, conjured up by the powers of sorcery? How express a terror compatible with intrepidity; how characterize the superstition that oppresses him? the ignoble credulity, which, even while he feels such scorn of life, forces on him such horror of death! Doubtless the human face is the grandest of all mysteries; yet fixed on canvas, it can hardly tell of more than one sensation; no struggle, no successive contrasts accessible to dramatic art, can painting give, as neither time nor motion exists for her.
"Racine's Phedra forms the fourth picture. Hippolitus, in all the beauty of youth and innocence, repulses the perfidious accusations of his step-mother. The heroic Theseus still protects his guilty wife, whom his conquering arms surround. Phedra's visage is agitated by impulses that we freeze to look on; and her remorseless nurse encourages her in guilt. Hippolitus is here even more lovely than in Racine; more like to Meleager, as no love for Aricia here seems to mingle with his tameless virtue. But could Phedra have supported her falsehood in such a presence? No, she must have fallen at his feet; a vindictive woman may injure him she loves in absence, but, while she looks on him, that love must triumph. The poet never brings them together after she has slandered him. The painter was obliged to oppose them to each other; but is not the distinction between the picturesque and the poetical proved by the fact, that verses copied from paintings are worth all the paintings that have imitated poetry? Fancy must ever precede reason, as it does in the growth of the human mind."
While Corinne spoke thus, she had frequently paused, hoping that Oswald would add his remarks; but, as she made any feeling observation, he would merely sigh and turn away his head, to conceal his present disposition towards sadness. Corinne, at last discouraged by this silence, sat down and hid her face in her hands. Oswald hastily paced the apartment, and was just about to give way to his emotions, when, with a sudden check of pride, he turned towards the pictures, as if expecting her to finish the account of them. She had great hope in the last; and making an effort to compose herself, rose, saying: "My Lord, there remain but three landscapes for me to show you; two possess some interest. I do not like rural scenes that bear no allusion to fable or history; they are insipid as the idols of our poets. I prefer Salvator Rosa's style here, which gives you rocks, torrents, and trees, with not even the wing of a bird visible to remind you of life! The absence of man, in the midst of nature, excites profound reflections. What is this deserted scene, so vainly beautiful, whose mysterious charms address but the eye of their Creator? Here, on the contrary, history and poesy are happily united in a landscape.[2] This represents the moment when Cincinnatus is invited by the consuls to quit his plough, and take command of the Roman armies. All the luxury of the south is seen in this picture—abundant vegetation, burning sky, and an universal air of joy, that pervades even the aspects of the plants. See what a contrast is beside it. The son of Cairbar sleep upon his father's tomb. Three nights he awaited the bard, who comes to honor the dead. His form is beheld afar, he descends the mountain's side. On the cloud floats the shade of the chief. The land is hoary with ice; and the trees, as the rude winds war on their lifeless and withered arms, strew their sear leaves to the gale, and herald the course of the storm." Oswald, till now, had cherished his resentment; but at the sight of this picture, the tomb of his father, the mountains of Scotland rose to his view, and his eyes filled with tears. Corinne took her harp, and sung one of those simple Scotch ballads whose notes seem fit to be borne on the wailing breeze. It was the soldier's farewell to his country and his love, in which recurred that most melodious and expressive of English phrases, "No more."[3] Corinne pronounced it so touchingly, that Oswald could resist no longer; and they wept together. "Ah, Corinne!" he cried, "does then my country affect your heart? Could you go with me to the land peopled by my recollections? Would you there be the worthy partner of my life, as you are here its enchantress?"—"I believe I could," she answered, "for I love you."—"In the name of love and piety then, have no more secrets from me."—"Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald; I promise it on one condition, that you ask not its fulfilment before the termination of our approaching religious solemnities. Is not the support of Heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must decide my fate?"—"Corinne," he said, "if thy fate depends on me it shall no longer be a sad one."—"You think so," she rejoined; "but I have no such confidence, therefore indulge my weakness." Oswald sighed, without granting or refusing the delay she asked. "Let us return to Rome now," she added. "I should tell you all in this solitude; and if what I have to say must drive you from me—need it be so soon? Come, Oswald; you may revisit this scene when my ashes repose here." Melted and agitated, he obeyed. On their road they scarcely spoke a word, but now and then exchanged looks of affection; yet a heavy melancholy oppressed them both, as they re-entered Rome.
[1] From a journal called "Europe," I have derived many valuable observations on painting—an inexhaustible subject for their author, M. Frederic Schlegel, and for German reasoners in general.
[2] Madame de Staël says: "Macbeth apprend que l'oracle des sorcières s'est accompli; que le forêt de Birnam paraît s'avancer vers Dunsinane; et qu'il se bat avec un homme né depuis la mort de sa mère."
"Ludicrous perversion of the author's meaning!" The points Shakspeare intended to impress were, that "the weird women," "juggling fiends, who palter with us in a double sense," had promised their victim success and life till events which he naturally conceived impossible, but which they knew would occur.—TR.
[3] I presume the "Adieu to Lochaber," though in that it is "nae mair."—TR.