Corinne; or, Italy

by Madame de Staël

All was arranged in a few days; parts distributed, the night fixed on, and the palace of a relative of Prince Castel Forte devoted to the representation. Oswald felt at once disquiet and delight; he enjoyed Corinne's success, by anticipation; but even thus grew jealous, beforehand, of no one man in particular, but of the public, who would witness an excellence of which he felt as if he alone had a right to be aware. He would have had Corinne reserve her charms for him, and appear to others as timid as an Englishwoman. However distinguished a man may be, he rarely feels unqualified pleasure in the superiority of a woman. If he does not love her, his self-esteem takes offence; if he does, his heart is oppressed by it. Beside Corinne, Oswald was rather intoxicated than happy: the admiration she excited increased his passion, without giving stability to his intents. She was a phenomenon every day new; but the very wonder she inspired seemed to lessen his hopes of domestic tranquillity. She was, notwithstanding, so gentle, so easy to live with, that she might have been beloved for her lowliest attributes, independent of all others; yet it was by these others that she had become remarkable. Lord Nevil, with all his advantages, thought himself beneath her, and doubted the duration of their attachment. In vain did she make herself his slave: the conqueror was too much in awe of his captive queen to enjoy his realm in peace. Some hours before the performance, Nevil led her to the house of the Princess, where the theatre had been fitted up. The sun shone beautifully; and at one of the staircase windows, which commanded a view of Rome and the Campagna, he paused a moment, saying: "Behold, how heaven itself lights you to victory!"—"It is to you, who point out its favor, that I owe such protection, then," she replied. "Tell me," he added, "do the pure emotions kindled by the sweetness of nature suffice to please you? Remember, this is a very different air from that you will respire in the tumultuous hall which soon will re-echo your name?"—"Oswald," she said, "if I obtain applause, will it not be because you hear it that it may touch my heart? If I display any talent, is it not my love for you that inspires me? Poetry, religion, all enthusiastic feelings, are in harmony with nature; and while gazing on the azure sky, while yielding to the reverie it creates, I understand better than ever the sentiments of Juliet, I become more worthy of Romeo."—"Yes, thou art worthy of him, celestial creature!" cried Nevil: "this jealous wish to be alone with thee in the universe, is, I own, a weakness. Go! receive the homage of the world! but be thy love, which is more divine even than thy genius, directed to none but me!" They parted, and Oswald took his place, awaiting her appearance on the stage. In Verona, the tomb of Romeo and Juliet is still shown. Shakspeare has written this play with truly southern fancy; at once impassioned and vivacious; triumphant in delight; and rushing from voluptuous felicity to despair and death. Its sudden love, we feel, from the first, will never be effaced; for the force of nature, beneath a burning clime, and not habitual fickleness, gives it birth. The sun is not capricious, though the vegetation be rapid; and Shakspeare, better than any other foreign poet, knew how to seize the national character of Italy—that fertility of mind which invents a thousand varied expressions for the same emotion; that Oriental eloquence which borrows images from all nature, to clothe the sensations of young hearts. In Ossian, one chord constantly replies to the thrill of sensibility; but in Shakspeare nothing is cold nor same. A sunbeam divided and reflected in a thousand varied ways, produces endlessly multiplied tints, all telling of the light and heat from whence they are derived. Thus "Romeo and Juliet," translated into Italian, seems but resuming its own mother-tongue.

The first meeting of the lovers is at a ball given by the Capulets, mortal enemies of the Montagues. Corinne was charmingly attired, her tresses mixed with gems and flowers; and at first sight scarce appeared herself: her voice, however, was soon recognised, as was her face, though now almost deified by poetic fire. Unanimous applause rang through the house as she appeared. Her first look discovered Oswald, and rested on him, sparkling with hope and love. The gazers' hearts beat with rapture and with fear, as if beholding happiness too great to last on earth. But was it for Corinne to realize such a presentiment? When Romeo drew near, to whisper his sense of her grace and beauty, in lines so glowing in English, so magnificent in Italian, the spectators, transported at being thus interpreted, fully entered into the passion whose hasty dawn appeared more than excusable. Oswald became all uneasiness; he felt as if every man was ready to proclaim her an angel among women, to challenge him on what he felt for her, to dispute his rights, and tear her from his arms. A dazzling cloud passed before his eyes; he feared that he should faint, and concealed himself behind a pillar. Corinne's eyes anxiously sought him, and with so deep a tone did she pronounce—

"Too early seen unknown, and known too late!"

that he trembled as if she applied these words to their personal situation. He renewed his gaze on her dignified and natural gestures, her countenance which spoke more than words could tell, those mysteries of the heart which must ever remain inexplicable and yet forever decide our fate. The accents, the looks, the least movements of a truly sensitive actor, reveal the depths of the human breast. The ideal of the fine arts always mingles with these revelations; the harmony of verse and the charm of attitude lending to passion the grace and majesty it so often wants in real life—it is here seen through the medium of imagination, without losing aught of its truth.

In the second act, Juliet has an interview with Romeo from a balcony in her garden. Of all Corinne's ornaments, none but the flowers were left; and even they were scarce visible, as the theatre was faintly illumined in imitation of moonlight, and the countenance of the fond Italian veiled in tender gloom. Her voice sounded still more sweetly than it had done amid the splendors of the fête. Her hand, raised towards the stars, seemed invoking them, as alone worthy of her confidence; and when she repeated, "Oh, Romeo, Romeo!" certain as Oswald felt that it was of him she thought, he was jealous that any other name than his own should be breathed by tones so delicious. She sat in front of the balcony; the actor who played Romeo was somewhat in the shade; all the glances of Corinne fell on her beloved, as she spoke those entrancing lines:—

"In truth, fair Montague! I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light;
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those who have more cunning to be strange."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Therefore—pardon me!"

At those words, "pardon me!" for loving, for letting thee know it—so tender an appeal filled the eyes of Corinne, such respect for her lover, such pride in her "fair Montague," that Oswald raised his head, and believed himself the monarch of the world, since he reigned over a heart inclosing all the treasures of love and life. Corinne, perceiving the effect this took on him, became doubly animated by that heartfelt enthusiasm, which, of itself can work such miracles; and when, at the approach of day, Juliet fancies that she hears the lark, the signal for Romeo's departure,[1] the accents of Corinne acquired a superhuman power; they told of love, indeed, but a religious mystery was now mingled with it; recollections of heaven—a presage of returning thither—the celestial grief of a soul exiled on earth, and soon to be reclaimed by its diviner home. Ah, how happy was Corinne, while playing so noble a part before the lover of her choice! How few lives can bear a comparison with one such night! Had Oswald himself been the Romeo, her pleasure could not have been so complete. She would have longed to break through the greatest poet's verse, and speak after her own heart; or perhaps the diffidence of love would have enchained her genius; truth carried to such a height would have destroyed illusion; but how sweet was the consciousness of his presence, while she was influenced by the exalted impulses which poetry alone can awaken, giving us all the excitement, without the anguish, of reality; while the affections she portrayed were neither wholly personal nor entirely abstract, but seemed saying to her Oswald. "Behold, how capable I am of loving!" It was impossible for her to be perfectly at ease in her own situation. Passion and modesty alternately impelled and restrained her, now piquing her pride, now enforcing its submission; but thus to display her perfections without arrogance, to unite sensibility with the calm it so often disturbs; to live a moment in the sweetest dreams of the heart—such was the pure delight of Corinne while acting Juliet. To this was united all her pleasure in the applause she won; and her looks seemed laying her success at the feet of him whose acceptance was worth all fame, and who preferred her glory to his own. Yes, for that hour, Corinne, thou wert enviable! tasting, at the price of thy repose, the ectasies for which, till then, thou hadst vainly sighed, and must henceforth forever deplore.

Juliet secretly becomes the wife of Romeo. Her parents command her to espouse another, and she obtains from a friar a sleeping-draught, which gives her the appearance of death. Corinne's trembling step and altered voice; her looks, now wild, now dejected, betrayed the struggles of love and fear; the terrible image of being borne alive to the tomb of her ancestors, and the brave fidelity which bade her young soul triumph over so natural a dread. Once she raised her eyes to heaven, with an ardent petition for that aid with which no human being can dispense; at another time Oswald fancied that she spread her arms towards him; he longed to fly to her aid; he rose in a kind of delirium, then sank on his seat, recalled to himself by the surprise of those around him; but his agitation was too strong to be concealed. In the fifth act, Romeo, believing Juliet dead, bears her from the tomb. Corinne was clad in white, her black locks dishevelled, her head gracefully resting on his bosom; but with an air of death so sadly true, that Oswald's heart was torn by contending sensations. He could not bear to see her in another's embrace; he shuddered at the sight of her inanimate beauty, and felt, like Romeo, that cruel union of despair and love, voluptuousness and death, which renders this scene the most heart-rending on the stage. At last, when Juliet wakes in the grave, beside which her lover has just sacrificed himself, her first words beneath those funeral vaults partake not of the fear they might occasion, but she cries:—

"Where is my lord? Where is my Romeo?"

Nevil replied but by a groan; and was hurried by Mr. Edgarmond out of the theatre. At the conclusion of the piece, Corinne was overpowered by fatigue and excitement. Oswald was the first to seek her room, where, still in the shroud of Juliet, she lay half-swooning in the arms of her women. In the excess of his dismay, he could no longer distinguish fiction from reality; but, throwing himself at her feet, exclaimed:—