"The places I have visited with her, the music we have heard together, the pictures she has pointed out to me, the books she has made me comprehend, compose the universe of my imagination. There is in all these objects a spark of her life; and if I were to exist at a distance from her I would wish at least to be surrounded by those objects, certain as I am of finding nowhere else that trace of fire, that trace of herself in fact, which she has left in them. Yes," continued he (and at that moment his eyes fell by chance upon Oswald), "behold Corinne; if you can pass your life with her, if that double existence which it is in her power to give can be assured to you for a long time; but do not behold her if you are condemned to quit her; you will seek in vain as long as you live that creative soul which shares and multiplies your sentiments and your thoughts; you will never behold her like again."
Oswald started at these words, his eyes fixed themselves upon Corinne, who heard them with an emotion that was not inspired by self-love, but which was allied to the most amiable and delicate feelings. The Prince Castel-Forte was much affected for a moment, and then resumed his speech. He spoke of Corinne's talent for music, for painting, for declamation and for dancing: In all these talents, he said, she was entirely herself, not confined to any particular manner, or to any particular rule, but expressing in various languages the same powers of the imagination, and the same witchery of the fine arts under all their different forms.
"I do not flatter myself," said the Prince Castel-Forte in concluding, "that I have been able to paint a lady of whom it is impossible to form an idea without having heard her; but her presence is, for us at Rome, as one of the benefits of our brilliant sky and our inspired nature. Corinne is the tie that unites her friends together; she is the moving principle and the interest of our life. We reckon upon her goodness; we are proud of her genius; we say to strangers, 'Behold her! She is the image of our beautiful Italy; she is what we should be without the ignorance, the envy, the discord and the indolence to which our fate has condemned us.' We take pleasure in contemplating her as an admirable production of our climate and of our fine arts,—as a scion shooting out of the past, as a prophecy of the future. When foreigners insult this country, whence has issued that intelligence which has shed its light over Europe; when they are without pity for our defects, which arise out of our misfortunes, we will say to them: 'Behold Corinne! 'Tis our desire to follow her footsteps; we would endeavour to become, as men, what she is as woman, if man like woman could create a world in his own heart; and if our genius, necessarily dependent upon social relations and external circumstances, could be kindled by the torch of poetry alone.'"
The moment the Prince Castel-Forte left off speaking unanimous applause was heard on all sides, and though towards the conclusion of his speech he indirectly blamed the present state of the Italians, all the nobles of the state approved of it; so true it is that we find in Italy that sort of liberality which does not lead men to alter institutions, but which pardons in superior minds a tranquil opposition to existing prejudices. The reputation of Prince Castel-Forte was very great in Rome. He spoke with a rare sagacity, which is a remarkable gift in a nation who exhibit more intellect in their conduct than in their conversation. He did not in his worldly concerns shew that address which often distinguishes the Italians, but he took delight in thought, and did not dread the fatigue of meditation. The happy inhabitants of the south sometimes shrink from this fatigue, and flatter themselves that imagination will do everything for them, as their fertile soil produces fruit without cultivation assisted only by the bounty of the sky.
FOOTNOTE:
[4] The language which is felt in the depth of the soul.
Chapter iii.
Corinne arose when the Prince Castel-Forte had ceased speaking; she thanked him by an inclination of the head so dignified yet so gentle, that it expressed at once the modesty and joy so natural at having received praise according to her heart's desire. It was the custom that every poet crowned at the Capitol should recite or extemporise some piece of poetry, before the destined laurel was placed on his head. Corinne ordered her lyre to be brought to her—the instrument of her choice—which greatly resembled the harp, but was however more antique in form and more simple in its sounds. In tuning it she was seized with uncommon timidity, and it was with a trembling voice that she asked to know the subject imposed on her. "The glory and happiness of Italy!" cried all around her with a unanimous voice. "Very well," replied she already fired with enthusiasm, already supported by her genius, "the glory and happiness of Italy;" and feeling herself animated by the love of her country she commenced the most charming strains, of which prose can give but a very imperfect idea.
The Improvisation of Corinne, at the Capitol.