[BOOK XVI.]
PARTING AND ABSENCE.
[CHAPTER I.]
As soon as Corinne's arrival was known in Venice, it excited the greatest curiosity. When she went to a café in the piazza of St. Mark, its galleries were crowded, for a moment's glimpse at her; and the best society sought her with eager haste. She had once loved to produce this effect wherever she appeared, and naturally confessed that admiration had many charms for her. Genius inspires this thirst for fame: there is no blessing undesired by those to whom Heaven gave the means of winning it. Yet in her present situation she dreaded everything in opposition with the domestic habits so dear to Nevil. Corinne was blind to her own welfare, in attaching herself to a man likely rather to repress than to excite her talents; but it is easy to conceive why a woman, occupied by literature and the arts, should love the tastes that differed from her own. One is so often weary of one's self, that a resemblance of that self would never tempt affection, which requires a harmony of sentiment, but a contrast of character; many sympathies, but not unvaried congeniality. Nevil was supremely blessed with this double charm. His gentle ease and gracious manner could never sate, because his liability to clouds and storms kept up a constant interest. Although the depth and extent of his acquirements fitted him for any life, his political opinions and military bias inclined him rather to a career of arms than one of letters—the thought that action might be more poetical than even verse itself. He was superior to the success of his own mind, and spoke of it with much indifference. Corinne strove to please him by imitating this carelessness of literary glory; in order to grow more like the retiring females from whom English womanhood offers the best model. Yet the homage she received at Venice gave Oswald none but agreeable sensations. There was so much cordial good-breeding in the reception she met—the Venetians expressed the pleasure her conversation afforded them with such vivacity, that Oswald felt proud of being dear to one so universally admired. He was no longer jealous of her celebrity, certain that she prized him far above it; and his own love increased by every tribute she elicited. He forgot England, and revelled in the Italian heedlessness of days to come. Corinne perceived this change; and her imprudent heart welcomed it, as if to last forever.
Italian is the only tongue whose dialects are almost languages of themselves. In that of each state books might be written distinct from the standard Italian; though only the Neapolitan, Sicilian, and Venetian dialects have yet the honor of being acknowledged; and that of Venice as the most original, most graceful of all. Corinne pronounced it charmingly; and the manner in which she sung some lively barcaroles proved that she could act comedy as well as tragedy. She was pressed to take a part in an opera which some of her new friends intended playing the next week. Since she had loved Oswald, she concealed this talent from him, not feeling sufficient peace of mind for its exercise, or, at other times, fearing that any outbreak of high spirits might be followed by misfortune; but now, with unwonted confidence, she consented, as he, too, joined in the request; and it was agreed that she should perform in a piece, like most of Gozzi's, composed of the most diverting fairy extravagances.[1] Truffaldin and Pantaloon, in these burlesques, often jostle the greatest monarchs of the earth. The marvellous furnishes them with jests, which, from their very order, cannot approach to low vulgarity. The Child of the Air, or Semiramis in her Youth, is a coquette, endowed by the celestials and infernals to subjugate the world; bred in a desert, like a savage, cunning as a sorceress, and imperious as a queen, she unites natural wildness with premeditated grace, and a warrior's courage with the frivolity of a woman. The character demands a fund of fanciful drollery, which but the inspiration of the moment can bring to light.
[1] Among the comic Italian authors who have described their country's manners, must be reckoned the Chevalier Rossi, a Roman, who singularly unites observation with satire.