[CHAPTER I.]
Oswald was proud of bearing off his conquest; though usually disturbed in his enjoyments by reflections and regrets, he felt less so now: not that he was decided, but that he did not trouble himself to be so; he yielded to the course of events, hoping to be borne towards the haven of his wishes. They crossed the Campagna d'Albano, where still is shown the supposed tomb of the Horatii and Curatii.[1] They passed near the Lake of Nemi, and the sacred woods that surround it, where it is said Hippolitus was restored to life by Diana, who permitted no horses ever to enter it more, in remembrance of her young favorite's misfortune. Thus, in Italy, almost at every step, history and poetry add to the graces of nature, sweeten the memory of the past, and seem to preserve it in eternal youth. Oswald and Corinne next traversed the Pontine Marshes, fertile and pestilent at once, unenlivened by a single habitation. Squalid-looking men put to the horses, advising you to keep awake while passing through this air, as sleep is ever the herald of death. Buffaloes, of the most stupid ferocity, draw the plough, which imprudent cultivators sometimes employ upon this fatal land; and the most brilliant sunshine lights up the whole. Unwholesome swamps in the north are indicated by their frightful aspects; but in the most dangerous countries of the south nature deceives the traveller by her serenest welcome. If it be true that slumber is so perilous on these fens, the drowsiness their heat produces adds still more to our sense of the perfidy around us. Nevil watched constantly over Corinne. When she languidly closed her eyes, or leaned her head on the shoulder of Thérésina, he awakened her with inexhaustible terror; and, silent as he was by nature, now found inexhaustible topics for conversation, ever new, to prevent her submitting for an instant to this murderous sleep. May we not forgive the heart of woman for the despairing regret with which it clings to the days when she was beloved? when her existence was so essential to that of another, that its every instant was protected by his arm? What isolation must succeed that delicious time! Happy they whom the sacred link of marriage gently leads from love to friendship, without one cruel moment having torn their hearts.
At last our voyagers arrived at Terracina, on the coast bordering the kingdom of Naples. There the south indeed begins, and receives the stranger in its full magnificence. The Campagna Felicé seems separated from the rest of Europe, not only by the sea, but by the destructive land which must be crossed to reach it. It is as if nature wished to keep her loveliest secret, and therefore rendered the road to it so hazardous. Not far from Terracina is the promontory chosen by poets as the abode of Circea, behind rises Mount Anxur, where Theodoric, king of the Goths, built one of his strongest castles. There are few traces of these invading barbarians left, and those, being mere works of destruction, are confounded with the works of time. The northern nations have not given Italy that warlike aspect which Germany retains. It seems as if the soft earth of Ausonia could not keep the fortifications and citadels that bristle through northern snows. Rarely is a Gothic edifice or feudal castle to be found here. The antique Romans still reign over the memory even of their conquerors. The whole of the mountain above Terracina is covered with orange and lemon trees, that delicately embalm the air. Nothing in our own climes resemble the effect of this perfume: it is like that of some exquisite melody, exciting and inebriating talent into poetry. The aloes and large-leaved cactus that abound here remind one of Africa's gigantic vegetation, almost fearfully; they seem belonging to a realm of tyranny and violence. Everything is strange as another world, known but by the songs of antique bards, who, in all their lays, evinced more imagination than truth. As they entered Terracina, the children threw into Corinne's carriage immense heaps of flowers, gathered by the wayside, or on the hills, and strewn at random, so confident are they in the prodigality of nature. The wagons that bring the harvest from the fields are daily garlanded with roses: one sees and hears, besides these smiling pictures, the waves that rage unlashed by storms against the rocks, eternal barriers that chafe the ocean's pride.
"E non udite ancor come risuona
Il roco ed alto fremito marino?"
"And hear you not still how resounds
The hoarse and deep roar of the sea?"
This endless motion, this aimless strength, renewed eternally, Whose cause and termination are alike unknown to us, draws us to the shore whence so grand a spectacle may be seen, till we feel a fearful desire to rush into its waves, and stun our thoughts amid their tumultuous voices.
Towards evening all is calm. Corinne and Nevil wandered slowly forth: they stepped on flowers, and scattered their sweets as they pressed them. The nightingale rests on the rose-bushes, and blends the purest music with the richest scents. All nature's charms seem mutually attracted; but the most entrancing and inexpressible of all is the mildness of the air. In contemplating a fine northern view, the climate always qualifies our pleasure. Like false notes in a concert, the petty sensations of cold and damp distract attention; but in approaching Naples you breathe so freely, feel such perfect ease; with such bounteous friendship does nature welcome you, that nothing impairs your delight. Man's every relation, in our lands, is with society: in warm climates his affections overflow among exterior objects. It is not that the south has not its melancholy—in what scenes can human destiny fail to awaken it?—but here it is unmixed with discontent or anxiety. Elsewhere life, such as it is, suffices not the faculties of man: here those faculties suffice not for a life whose superabundance of sensation induce a pensive indolence, for which those who feel it can scarce account.
During the night the fire-flies fill the air: one might suppose that the burning earth thus let her flames escape in light: these insects wanton through the trees, sometimes pitching on their leaves; and as the wind waves them, the uncertain gleam of these little stars is varied in a thousand ways. The sand also contains a number of small ferruginous stones, that shine through it, as if earth cherished in her breast the last rays of the vivifying sun. Everywhere is united a life and a repose that satisfy at once all the wishes of existence.
Corinne yielded to the charm of such a night with heartfelt joy. Oswald could not conceal his emotion. Often he pressed her hand to his heart, then withdrew, returned, retired again, in respect for her who ought to be the companion of his life. She thought not of her danger: such was her esteem for him, that, had he demanded the gift of her entire being, she would not have doubted that such prayer was but a solemn vow to make her his wife; she was glad, however, that he triumphed over himself, and honored her by the sacrifice: her soul was so replete with love and happiness, that she could not form another wish. Oswald was far from this calm: fired by her beauty, he once embraced her knees with violence, and seemed to have lost all empire over his passion; but Corinne looked on him with so sweet a fear, as if confessing his power, in entreating him not to abuse it, that this humble defence extorted more reverence than any other could have done. They saw reflected in the wave a torch which some unknown hand bore along the beach, to a rendezvous at a neighboring house. "He goes to his love," said Oswald; "and for me the happiness of this day will soon be over." Corinne's eyes, then raised to heaven, were filled with tears. Oswald, fearing he had offended her, fell at her feet, begging her to pardon the love which hurried him away. She gave him her hand, proposing their return together. "Oswald," she said, "you will, I am assured, respect her you love; you know that the simplest request of yours would be resistless: it is you, then, who must answer for me; you, who would refuse me for your wife, if you had rendered me unworthy to be so."—"Well," said Oswald, "since you know the cruel potency of your will over my heart, whence, whence this sadness?"—"Alas!" she replied, "I had told myself that my last moments passed with you were the happiest of my life; and, as I looked gratefully to heaven, I know not by what chance a childish superstition came back upon my mind. The moon was hid by a cloud of fatal aspect. I have always found the sky either paternal or angry; and I tell you, Oswald, that to-night it condemns our love."—"Dearest," cried he, "the only auguries are good or evil actions; and have I not this evening immolated my most ardent desires to virtue?"—"It is well," added Corinne: "if you are not involved in this presage, it may be that the stormy heaven menaces but myself."
[1] There is an exquisite account of the Lake Albano, in a collection of poems by Madame Brunn (formerly Munter), one of the most talented and imaginative women of her country.