The noise of the waves and the silence of the sailors, who neither moved nor spoke but in pursuance of their duty, and who rapidly conducted the bark over that sea which they had so often traversed, gave birth to reverie. Besides, Corinne dared not question Lord Nelville on what had just passed. She sought to conjecture his purpose, not thinking (which is however the more probable) that he had none, and that he yielded to each new circumstance. One moment she imagined that he was conducting her to divine service in order to espouse her, and this idea caused her at the time more fear than happiness: it appeared to her that she was going to quit Italy and return to England, where she had suffered so much. The severity of manners and customs in that country returned to her mind, and love itself could not entirely triumph over the bitterness of her recollections. But how astonished will she be in other circumstances at those thoughts, fleeting as they were! how she will abjure them!
Corinne ascended the ship, the interior of which presented a picture of the most studied cleanliness and order. Nothing was heard but the voice of the captain, which was prolonged and repeated from one end to the other by command and obedience. The subordination, regularity, silence, and serious deportment so remarkable on this ship, formed a system of social order rigid and free, in contrast with the city of Naples, so volatile, so passionate, and tumultuous. Oswald was occupied with Corinne and the impressions she received; but his attention was sometimes diverted from her by the pleasure he felt in finding himself in his native country. And indeed are not ships and the open sea a second country to an Englishman? Oswald walked the deck with the English on board to learn the news from England, and to discuss the politics of their country; during which time Corinne was with some English ladies who had come from Naples to attend divine worship. They were surrounded by their children, as beautiful as the day, but timid as their mothers; and not a word was spoken before a new acquaintance. This constraint, this silence, rendered Corinne very sad; she turned her eyes towards beautiful Naples, towards its flowery shores, its animated existence, and sighed. Fortunately for her Oswald did not perceive it; on the contrary, beholding her seated among English women, her dark eyelids cast down like their fair ones, and conforming in every respect to their manners, he felt a sensation of joy. In vain does an Englishman find pleasure in foreign manners; his heart always reverts to the first impressions of his life. If you ask Englishmen sailing at the extremity of the world whither they are going, they will answer you, home, if they are returning to England. Their wishes and their sentiments are always turned towards their native country, at whatever distance they may be from it.
They descended between decks to hear divine service, and Corinne soon perceived that her idea was without foundation, that Lord Nelville had not formed the solemn project she had at first supposed. She then reproached herself with having feared such an event, and the embarrassment of her present situation revived in her bosom; for all the company believed her to be the wife of Lord Nelville, and she had not the courage to say a word that might either destroy or confirm this idea. Oswald suffered as cruelly as she did; but in the midst of a thousand rare qualities, there was much weakness and irresolution in his character. These defects are unperceived by their possessor, and assume in his eyes a new form under every circumstance; he conceives it alternately to be prudence, sensibility, or delicacy, which defers the moment of adopting a resolution and prolongs a state of indecision; hardly ever does he feel that it is the same character which attaches this kind of inconvenience to every circumstance.
Corinne, however, notwithstanding the painful thoughts that occupied her, received a deep impression from the spectacle which she witnessed. Nothing, in truth, speaks more to the soul than divine service performed on board a ship; and the noble simplicity of the reformed worship seems particularly adapted to the sentiments which are then felt. A young man performed the functions of chaplain; he preached with a mild but firm voice, and his figure bespoke the rigid principles of a pure soul amidst the ardour of youth. That severity carries with it an idea of force, very suitable to a religion preached among the perils of war. At stated moments, the English minister delivered prayers, the last words of which all the assembly repeated with him. These confused but mild voices proceeding from various distances kept alive interest and emotion. The sailors, the officers, and the captain, knelt down several times, particularly at these words, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" The sword of the captain, which dragged on the deck whilst he was kneeling, called to mind that noble union of humility before God and intrepidity before man, which renders the devotion of warriors so affecting; and whilst these brave people besought the God of armies, the sea was seen through the port-holes, and sometimes the murmuring of the waves, at that moment tranquil, seemed to say, "your prayers are heard." The chaplain finished, the service by a prayer, peculiar to the English sailors. "May God," say they, "give us grace to defend our happy Constitution from without, and to find on our return domestic happiness at home!" How many fine sentiments are united in these simple words! The long and continued study which the navy requires and the austere life led in a ship, make it a military cloister in the midst of the waves; and the regularity of the most serious occupations is there only interrupted by perils and death. The sailors, in spite of their rough, hardy manners, often express themselves with much gentleness, and show a particular tenderness to women and children when they meet them on board. We are the more touched with these sentiments, because we know with what coolness they expose themselves to those terrible dangers of war and the sea, in the midst of which the presence of man has something of the supernatural.
Corinne and Lord Nelville returned to the boat which was to bring them ashore; they beheld the city of Naples, built in the form of an amphitheatre, as if to take part more commodiously in the festival of nature; and Corinne, in setting her foot again upon Italian ground, could not refrain from feeling a sentiment of joy. If Nelville had suspected this sentiment he would have been hurt at it, and perhaps with reason; yet he would have been unjust towards Corinne, who loved him passionately in spite of the painful impression caused by the remembrance of a country where cruel circumstances had rendered her so unhappy. Her imagination was lively; there was in her heart a great capacity for love; but talent, especially in a woman, begets a disposition to weariness, a want of something to divert the attention, which the most profound passion cannot make entirely disappear. The idea of a monotonous life, even in the midst of happiness, makes a mind which stands in need of variety, to shudder with fear. It is only when there is little wind in the sails, that we can keep close to shore; but the imagination roves at large, although affection be constant; it is so, at least, till the moment when misfortune makes every inconsistency disappear, and leaves but one thought and one grief in the mind.
Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne solely to the embarrassment into which she had been thrown by hearing herself called Lady Nelville; and reproaching himself for not having released her from that embarrassment he feared she might suspect him of levity. He began therefore in order to arrive at the long-desired explanation by offering to relate to her his own history. "I will speak first," said he, "and your confidence will follow mine." "Yes, undoubtedly it must," answered Corinne, trembling; "but tell me at what day—at what hour? When you have spoken, I will tell you all."—"How agitated you are," answered Oswald; "what then, will you ever feel that fear of your friend, that mistrust of his heart?" "No," continued Corinne; "it is decided; I have committed it all to writing, and if you choose, to-morrow—" "To-morrow," said Lord Nelville, "we are to go together to Vesuvius; I wish to contemplate with you this astonishing wonder, to learn from you how to admire it; and in this very journey, if I have the strength, I will make you acquainted with the particulars of my past life. My heart is determined; thus my confidence will open the way to yours." "So you give me to-morrow," replied Corinne; "I thank you for this one day. Ah! who knows whether you will be the same for me when I have opened my soul to you? And how can I feel such a doubt without shuddering?"
Chapter iv.
The ruins of Pompei are near to Mount Vesuvius, and Corinne and Lord Neville began their excursion with these ruins. They were both silent; for the moment approached which was to decide their fate, and that vague hope they had so long enjoyed, and which accords so well with the indolence and reverie that the climate of Italy inspires, was to be replaced by a positive destiny. They visited Pompei together, the most curious ruin of antiquity. At Rome, seldom any thing is found but the remains of public monuments, and these monuments only retrace the political history of past ages; but at Pompei it is the private life of the ancients which offers itself to the view, such as it was. The Volcano, which has covered this city with ashes, has preserved it from the destroying hand of Time. Edifices, exposed to the air, never could have remained so perfect; but this hidden relic of antiquity was found entire. The paintings and bronzes were still in their pristine beauty; and every thing connected with domestic life is fearfully preserved. The amphoræ are yet prepared for the festival of the following day; the flour which was to be kneaded is still to be seen; the remains of a woman, are still decorated with those ornaments which she wore on the holiday that the Volcano disturbed, and her calcined arms no longer fill the bracelets of precious stones which still surround them. Nowhere is to be seen so striking an image of the sudden interruption of life. The traces of the wheels are visible in the streets, and the stones on the brink of the wells bear the mark of the cord which has gradually furrowed them. On the walls of a guardhouse are still to be seen those misshapen characters, those figures rudely sketched, which the soldiers traced to pass away the time, while Time was hastily advancing to swallow them up.
When we place ourselves in the midst of the crossroads from which the city that remains standing almost entire is seen on all sides, it seems to us as if we were waiting for somebody, as if the master were coming; and even the appearance of life which this abode offers makes us feel more sadly its eternal silence. It is with petrified lava that the greater part of these houses are built, which are now swallowed up by other lava. Thus ruins are heaped upon ruins, and tombs upon tombs. This history of the world, where the epochs are counted from ruin to ruin, this picture of human life, which is only lighted up by the Volcanoes that have consumed it, fill the heart with a profound melancholy. How long man has existed! How long he has suffered and died! Where can we find his sentiments and his thoughts? Is the air that we breathe in these ruins impregnated with them, or are they for ever deposited in heaven where reigns immortality? Some burnt leaves of manuscripts, which have been found at Herculaneum, and Pompei, and which scholars at Portici are employed to decipher, are all that remain to give us information of those unhappy victims, whom the Volcano, that thunder-bolt of earth, has destroyed. But in passing near those ashes, which art has succeeded in reanimating, we are afraid to breathe lest a breath should carry away that dust where noble ideas are perhaps still imprinted.