Oswald's irresolution, augmented by misfortunes, taught him to fear every irrevocable engagement. He dared not ask Corinne her name or story, though his love for her grew each day more strong; he could not look on her without emotion; hardly, in the midst of society, quit her side for an instant; she said not a word he did not feel, nor expressed a sentiment, sad or gay, that was not reflected in his face. Yet, loving, admiring her as he did, he forgot not how little such a wife would accord with English habits; how much she differed from the idea his father formed of the woman it would become him to marry; all he said to Corinne was restrained by the disquiet these reflections caused him. She perceived this but too plainly; yet so much would it have cost her to break with him, that she lent herself to whatever could prevent a decisive explanation; and, never possessing much forethought, revelled in the present, such as it was, not dreaming of the inevitable future. She entirely secluded herself from the world in this devotion to him; but, at last, hurt by his silence on their prospects, she resolved to accept a pressing invitation to a ball. Nothing is more common, in Rome, than for persons to leave and return to society by fits; there is so little gossip in Italy, that people do what they like, without comment, at least without obstacle, in affairs either of love or ambition. Foreigners are as safe as natives in this rendezvous of Europeans. When Nevil learned that Corinne was going to a ball, he was out of humor; for some time he had fancied that he detected in her a melancholy sympathetic with his own; yet suddenly she appeared to think of nothing but dancing (in which she so much excelled), and the eclat of a fête. Corinne was not frivolous; but, feeling every day more subdued by love, she wished to combat its force. She knew by experience that reflection and forbearance have less power over impassioned characters than dissipation; and she thought that, if unable to triumph over herself as she ought, the next best step were to do as she could. When Nevil censured her intentions, she replied, "I want to ascertain whether what formerly pleased can still amuse me, or whether my regard for you is to absorb every other interest of my life."—"You would fain cease to love me," he said. "Not so," she replied; "but it is only in domestic life that it can be agreeable to feel one's self lorded over by a single affection. To me, who need my wit and genius to sustain the reputation of the life I have adopted, it is a great misfortune to love as I love you."—"You will not sacrifice your glory to me, then?" cried Oswald.—"Of what importance were it to you," she replied, "if I did? Since we are not destined for each other, I must not forever destroy the kind of happiness with which I ought to content myself." Lord Nevil said nothing; conscious that he could not now speak without explaining his designs; and, in truth, he was ignorant of them himself. He sighed, and reluctantly followed Corinne to the ball. It was the first time, since his loss, that he had gone to such an assembly. Its tumult so oppressed him that he remained for some period in a hall beside the dancing-room, with his head reclined upon his hand; not even wishing to see Corinne dance. All music, even if its occasion be a gay one, renders us pensive. The Count d'Erfeuil arrived, enchanted with the crowd and amusements, which once more reminded him of France. "I've done my best," he said, "to interest myself in their vaunted ruins, but I see nothing in them; 'tis a mere prejudice, this fuss about rubbish covered with briers! I shall speak my mind when I return to France; for it is high time that the farce should be ended. There is not a single building of to-day in good repair, that is not worth all these trunks of pillars, and mouldy bas-reliefs, which can only be admired through the spectacles of pedantry. A rapture which one must purchase by study cannot be very vivid in itself. One needs not spoil one's complexion over musty books, to appreciate the sights of Paris."
Lord Nevil was silent, and d'Erfeuil questioned him on his opinion of Rome. "A ball is not the place for serious conversation," said Oswald; "and you know that I can afford you no other."—"Mighty fine," replied the Count. "I own I am gayer than you; but who can say that I am not wiser too? Trust me, there is much philosophy in taking the world as it goes."—"Perhaps you are right," answered Oswald; "but, as you are what you are by nature, and not by reflection, your manner of living can belong to no one but yourself."
D'Erfeuil now heard the name of Corinne from the ball-room, and went to learn what was doing there. Nevil followed him to the door, and saw the handsome Neapolitan Prince Amalfi soliciting her to dance the Tarantula with him. All her friends joined in this request. She waited for no importunity, but promised with a readiness which astonished d'Erfeuil, accustomed as he was to the refusals with which it is the fashion to precede consent. In Italy these airs are unknown; there, every one is simple enough to believe that he cannot better please society than by promptly fulfilling whatever it requires. Corinne would have introduced this natural manner, if she had not found it there. The dress she had assumed was light and elegant. Her locks were confined by a silken fillet, and her eyes expressed an animation which rendered her more attractive than ever. Oswald was uneasy; displeased with his own subjection to charms whose existence he was inclined to deplore, as, far from wishing to gratify him, it was almost in order to escape from his power that Corinne shone forth thus enchantingly; yet, who could resist her seducing grace? Even in scorn she would have been still triumphant; but scorn was not in her disposition. She perceived her lover; and blushed, as she bestowed on him one of her sweetest smiles. The Prince Amalfi accompanied himself with castanets. Corinne saluted the assembly with both hands; then, turning, took the tambourine, which her partner presented to her, and she beat time as she danced. Her gestures displayed that easy union of modesty and voluptuousness, such as must have so awed the Indians when the Bayardères—poets of the dance—depicted the various passions by characteristic attitudes. Corinne was so well acquainted with antique painting and sculpture, that her positions were so many studies for the votaries of art. Now she held her tambourine above her head; sometimes advanced it with one hand, while the other ran over its little bells with a dexterous rapidity that brought to mind the girls of Herculaneum.[1] This was not French dancing, remarkable for the difficulty of its steps; it was a movement more allied to fancy and to sentiment. The air to which she danced, pleased alternately by its softness and its precision. Corinne as thoroughly infected the spectators with her own sensations as she did while extemporizing poetry, playing on her lyre, or designing an expressive group. Everything was language for her. The musicians, in gazing on her, felt all the genius of their art; and every witness of this magic was electrified by impassioned joy, transported into an ideal world, there to dream of bliss unknown below.
There is a part of the Neapolitan dance where the heroine kneels, while the hero marches round her, like a conqueror. How dignified looked Corinne at that moment! What a sovereign she was on her knees! and when she rose, clashing her airy tambourine, she appeared animated by such enthusiasm of youthful beauty, that one might have thought she needed no life but her own to make her happy. Alas, it was not thus! though Oswald feared it, and sighed as if her every success separated her farther from him. When the Prince, in his turn knelt to Corinne, she, if possible, surpassed herself. Twice or thrice she fled round him, her sandalled feet skimming the floor with the speed of lightning; and when shaking her tambourine above his head with one hand, she signed with the other for him to rise, every man present was tempted to prostrate himself before her, except Lord Nevil, who drew back some paces, and d'Erfeuil, who made a step or two forwards, in order to compliment Corinne. The Italians gave way to what they felt, without one fear of making themselves remarkable. They were not like men so accustomed to society, and the self-love which it excites, as to think on the effect they might produce; they are never to be turned from their pleasures by vanity, nor from their purposes by applause.
Corinne, charmed with the result of her attempt, thanked her friends with amiable simplicity. She was satisfied, and permitted her content to be seen, with childlike candor; her greatest desire was to get through the crowd to the door, against which Oswald was leaning. She reached it at last, and paused for him to speak. "Corinne," he said, endeavoring to conceal both his delight and his distress, "you have extorted universal homage: but is there, among all your adorers, one brave, one trusty friend; one protector for life? or can the clamors of flattery suffice a soul like yours?"
[1] The dancing of Madame Récamier gave me the idea which I endeavored to express. This celebrated beauty, in the midst of afflictions, displayed so touching a resignation, so total a forgetfulness of self, that her moral qualities seem as extraordinary as her personal grace.
[CHAPTER II.]
The press of company prevented Corinne's reply: they were going to supper; and each cavaliér servénte hastened to seat himself beside his lady. A fair stranger arrived and found no room; yet not a man, save Oswald and d'Erfeuil, rose to offer her his place. Not that the Romans were either rude or selfish; but they believed that their honor depended on their never quitting their post of duty. Some, unable to gain seats, leaned behind their mistresses' chairs, ready to obey the slightest sign. The females spoke but to their lovers: strangers wandered in vain around a circle where no one had a word to spare them; for Italian women are ignorant of that coquetry which renders a love affair nothing more than the triumph of self-conceit; they wish to please no eyes save those that are dear to them. The mind is never misled before the heart. The most abrupt commencements are often followed by sincere devotion, and even by lasting constancy. Infidelity is more censured in man than in woman. Three or four men, beneath different titles, may follow the same beauty, who takes them with her everywhere, sometimes without troubling herself to name them to the master of the house which receives the party. One is the favorite; another aspires to be so; a third calls himself the sufferer (il patíto); though disdained, he is permitted to be of use; all the rivals live peaceably together. It is only among the common people that you still hear of the stiletto; but the whole country presents a wild mixture of simpleness and of vice, dissimulation and truth, good-nature and revenge, strength and weakness; justifying the remark, that the best of these qualities may be found among those who will do nothing for vanity; the worst among such as will do anything for interest; whether the interest of love, of avarice, or ambition. Distinctions of rank are generally disregarded in Italy. It is not from stoicism, but from heedless familiarity, that men are here insensible to aristocratic prejudices; constituting themselves judges of no one, they admit everybody. After supper they sat down to play; some of the women at hazard, others chose silent whist; and not a word was now uttered in the apartment, so noisy just before. The people of the south often run thus quickly from the extreme of agitation to that of repose; it is one of the peculiarities of their character, that indolence is succeeded by activity: indeed, in all respects they are the last men on whose merits or defects we ought to decide at first sight; so contrasted are the qualities they unite; the creatures all prudence to-day may be all audacity to-morrow. They are often apathetic, from just having made, or preparing to make, some great exertion. In fact, they waste not one energy of their minds on society, but hoard them till called forth by strong events. At this assembly many persons lost enormous sums, without the slightest change of countenance; yet the same beings could not have related a trivial anecdote without the most lively and expressive gesticulation. But when the passions have attained a certain degree of violence, they shrink from sight and veil themselves in silence.