[5] We must expect from this censure upon the Italian mode of
declamation, the celebrated Monti, who recites verses as well as he
composes them. It is really one of the greatest dramatic pleasures that
can be experienced, to hear him recite the Episode of Ugolin, of
Francesca da Rimini, the Death of Clorinda, &c.
Chapter iv.
The Senator took the crown of myrtle and laurel which he was to place on
the head of Corinne. She removed the shawl which graced her forehead,
and all her ebon hair fell in ringlets about her shoulders. She advanced
with her head bare, and her look animated by a sentiment of pleasure and
gratitude which she sought not to conceal. She a second time bent her
knee, to receive the crown; but she displayed less agitation and tremor
than at first; she had just spoken; she had just filled her mind with
the most noble thoughts, and enthusiasm conquered diffidence. She was
no longer a timid woman, but an inspired priestess who joyfully
consecrated herself to the worship of genius.
As soon as the crown was placed on the head of Corinne all the
instruments were heard in those triumphant airs which fill the soul with
the most sublime emotion. The sound of kettle-drums, and the flourish of
trumpets, inspired Corinne with new feelings--her eyes were filled with
tears--she sat down a moment, and covered her face with her
handkerchief. Oswald, most sensibly affected, quitted the crowd, and
advanced to speak to her, but was withheld by an invincible
embarrassment. Corinne looked at him for some time, taking care
nevertheless, that he should not observe the attention she paid him; but
when the Prince Castel-Forte came to take her hand, in order to conduct
her to the car, she yielded to his politeness with an absent mind; and,
while she permitted him to hand her along, turned her head several
times, under various pretexts, to take another view of Oswald.
He followed her, and at the moment when she descended the steps
accompanied by her train, she made a retrograde movement, in order to
behold him once more, when her crown fell off. Oswald hastened to pick
it up; and in restoring it to her, said in Italian, that an humble
mortal like himself might venture to place at the feet of a goddess that
crown which he dared not presume to place on her head[6]. Corinne
thanked Lord Nelville in English, with that pure national accent--that
pure insular accent, which has scarcely ever been successfully imitated
on the continent. What was the astonishment of Oswald in hearing her! He
remained at first immovably fixed to the spot where he was, and feeling
confused he leaned against one of the lions of basalt at the foot of
the stairway descending from the Capitol. Corinne viewed him again,
forcibly struck with the emotion he betrayed; but she was dragged away
towards the car, and the whole crowd disappeared long before Oswald had
recovered his strength and his presence of mind.
Corinne, till then, had enchanted him as the most charming of
foreigners--as one of the wonders of that country he had come to visit;
but her English accent recalled every recollection of his native
country, and in a manner naturalised all the charms of Corinne. Was she
English? Had she passed several years of her life in England? He was
lost in conjecture; but it was impossible that study alone could have
taught her to speak thus--Corinne and Lord Nelville must have lived in
the same country. Who knows whether their families were not intimate?
Perhaps even, he had seen her in his infancy! We often have in our
hearts, we know not what kind of innate image of that which we love,
which may persuade us that we recognise it in an object we behold for
the first time.
Oswald had cherished many prejudices against the Italians; he believed
them passionate, but changeable, and incapable of any deep and lasting
affection. Already the language of Corinne at the Capitol had inspired
him with a different idea. What would be his fortune, then, if he could
at once revive the recollections of his native country, and receive by
imagination a new existence,--live again for the future without
forgetting the past!
In the midst of his reveries, Oswald found himself upon the bridge of St
Angelo, which leads to the castle of the same name, or rather to the
tomb of Adrian, which has been converted into a fortress. The silence of
the place, the pale waves of the Tiber, the moon-beams which shed their
mild radiance upon the statues placed on the bridge, and gave to those
statues the appearance of white spectres steadfastly regarding the
current of the waters, and the flight of time which no longer concerned
them; all these objects led him back to his habitual ideas. He put his
hand upon his breast, and felt the portrait of his father which he
always carried there; he untied it, contemplated the features, and the
momentary happiness which he had just experienced, as well as the cause
of that happiness, only recalled, with too severe a remembrance, the
sentiment which had already rendered him so guilty towards his father:
This reflection renewed his remorse.
"Eternal recollection of my life!" cried he: "Friend so offended, yet so
generous! Could I have believed that any pleasurable sensation would so
soon have found access to my heart? It is not thou, best and most
indulgent of men,--it is not thou who reproachest me with them--it was
thy wish that I should be happy, and, in spite of my errors, that is
still thy desire: but at least, may I not misconceive thy voice, if thou
speak to me from heaven, as I have misconceived it upon earth!"