In vain would Oswald have endeavoured to conceal the exquisite pleasure
he received from this letter; he caught a glimpse of a confused future
of enjoyment and happiness: imagination, love, enthusiasm, all that is
divine in the soul of man, appeared to him united with the project of
seeing Rome with Corinne. For, this time he did not reflect; this time
he set out the very instant to visit Corinne, and by the way he
contemplated the sky, he enjoyed the charm of the weather, life sat
lightly on him. His griefs and his fears were lost in the clouds of
hope; his heart, so long oppressed by sadness, palpitated and leaped
with joy; he feared, it is true, that so happy a disposition of mind
might not last; but the very idea that it was fleeting gave to this
fever of enjoyment more force and activity.
"What, are you come already?" said Corinne, seeing Lord Nelville enter;
"Ah, thanks!" and she stretched forth her hand. Oswald seized it, and
imprinted his lips on it with the warmest tenderness; nor did he suffer
now that timidity which often mingled itself with his most agreeable
impressions, and caused him sometimes to endure, in the company of those
he loved best, the most bitter and painful feelings. The intimacy had
commenced between Oswald and Corinne since they had parted; it was the
letter of Corinne which had established it: they were satisfied with
each other, and mutually felt the most tender gratitude.
"This morning then," said Corinne, "I will shew you the Pantheon and St
Peter's: I had, indeed, some hope," added she smiling, "that you would
accept my offer to make the tour of Rome with you, so my horses are
ready. I have expected you; you have arrived; 'tis very well, let us set
out." "Astonishing woman!" said Oswald; "Who then, art thou? Whence hast
thou derived so many opposite charms, which it would seem ought to
exclude each other;--sensibility, gaiety, profound reflection, external
grace, freedom, and modesty? Art thou an illusion? art thou some
supernatural blessing, destined to make happy the life of him who is
fortunate enough to meet with thee?" "Ah!" replied Corinne, "if I have
it in my power to do you any service you must not think I will ever give
up the merit of it." "Take care," said Oswald, seizing Corinne's hand
with emotion; "take care what service it is you are about to render me.
For these two years the iron hand of affliction has closed up my heart;
if your sweet presence has afforded me relief; if, while with you, I
breathe again, what will become of me when once more abandoned to my
destiny?--What will become of me?" "Let us leave to time and to chance,"
interrupted Corinne, "to decide whether this impression of a day, which
I have produced upon you, will be longer than a day in its duration. If
there be a mutual sympathy between our souls, our mutual affection will
not be transient. Be that as it may, let us go and admire together all
that can elevate our mind and our sentiments; we shall thus taste some
moments of happiness."
In finishing these words Corinne went down stairs, and Nelville followed
her, astonished at her answer. It seemed to him that she admitted the
possibility of a half sentiment,--a momentary attraction. In short, he
thought he perceived something like levity in the manner in which she
had expressed herself, and he was hurt at it.
He placed himself, without saying a word, in Corinne's carriage; who,
guessing his thoughts, said to him, "I do not believe that the heart of
man is so formed that he must always feel either no love at all or the
most invincible passion. There are beginnings of sentiment which a more
profound examination may dissipate. We flatter and then undeceive
ourselves, and even the enthusiasm of which we are susceptible, if it
renders the enchantment more rapid, may also cause coldness to succeed
the more quickly." "You have, then, reflected deeply on the tender
passion," said Oswald with bitterness. Corinne blushed at this word, and
was silent for some moments; then resuming the conversation, with a
striking mixture of frankness and dignity, "I do not believe," said she,
"that a woman of sensibility has ever arrived at the age of twenty-six
years, without having known the illusion of love; but if never having
been happy, if never having met the object who could merit all the
affections of my heart, be any claim to interest in the bosom of man, I
have a claim to yours." These words, and the accent with which Corinne
pronounced them, dissipated a little, the cloud which had spread over
the soul of Lord Nelville; nevertheless he said to himself: "She is the
most fascinating of women, but an Italian; and hers is not that timid,
innocent heart, to herself unknown, which the young English lady that my
father destined for me must possess."
The name of this young English lady was Lucilia Edgermond, daughter to
the best friend of Lord Nelville's father; but she was too young when
Oswald quitted England for him to marry her, or even foresee, with
certainty, what she would one day become.
Chapter ii.
Oswald and Corinne went first to the Pantheon, which is now called _St
Mary of the Rotunda_. In every part of Italy Catholicism has inherited
something of Paganism, but the Pantheon is the only ancient Temple of
Rome which is preserved entire, the only one where may be remarked in
its _ensemble_ the beauty of the architecture of the ancients, and the
particular character of their worship. Oswald and Corinne stopped in the
square of the Pantheon to admire the portico of this Temple and the
pillars that support it.
Corinne made Nelville observe that the Pantheon was constructed in such
a manner as to appear greater than it was. "The church of St Peter,"
said she, "will produce quite a different effect upon you; you will
believe it at first less stupendous than it is in reality. This
illusion, so favourable to the Pantheon, comes, as I am assured, from
there being more space between the pillars, and the air playing freely
around it; but principally from your not perceiving any of that detailed
ornament with which St Peter's is overladen. It is thus that the ancient
poets only designed large masses, and left the imagination of the hearer
to fill up the intervals, and supply the developments; but we moderns in
all things say too much."
"This Temple," continued Corinne, "was consecrated by Agrippa, the
favourite of Augustus, to his friend, or rather to his master. However,
the master had the modesty to refuse the dedication of the Temple, and
Agrippa was obliged to dedicate it to all the gods in Olympus, in order
to take the place of Power, the god of the earth. There was a car of
bronze on the top of the Pantheon, on which were placed the statues of
Augustus and of Agrippa. On each side of the portico these same statues
were placed in another form, and on the pediment of the Temple is still
to be read: '_Consecrated by Agrippa_.' Augustus gave his name to the
age in which he lived because he made that age an epoch of the human
mind. The masterpieces of every kind produced by his contemporaries form
the rays of glory that encircle his head. He knew how to honour the men
of genius who cultivated letters, and he has found his recompense in
posterity."
"Let us enter the temple," said Corinne. "You see it remains uncovered,
almost the same as it was formerly. They say that this light, proceeding
from the top, was the emblem of that God who was superior to all the
other deities. The Pagans have always been fond of symbolic images. It
seems, in effect, that this language is more fitting than speech to
religion. The rain often falls upon this marble court, but the rays of
the sun also enter to enlighten devotion. What serenity! What an air of
festivity is remarkable in this edifice! The Pagans have deified life,
and the Christians have deified death. Such is the spirit of the two
worships, but the Roman Catholic religion here, however, is less sombre
than in the northern countries. You will observe it when we visit St
Peter's. Inside the sanctuary of the Pantheon are the busts of our most
celebrated artists, they adorn the niches where were placed the gods of
the ancients.--As, since the destruction of the empire of the Cæsars, we
have hardly ever had political independence in Italy, you do not find
here either statesmen or great commanders. It is the genius of
imagination which constitutes our own glory; but do you not think, my
lord, that a people who honour talents in this manner ought to merit a
nobler fate?" "I am very severe towards nations," answered Oswald; "I
always believe that they deserve their fate let it be what it may."
"That is hard," replied Corinne; "perhaps after a longer residence in
Italy you will experience a sentiment of compassion towards this unhappy
country, which nature seems to have decorated as a victim; but, at
least, you will remember that the dearest hope of us artists, of us
lovers of glory, is to obtain a place here. I have already fixed upon
mine," said she pointing to a niche still vacant. "Oswald! who knows
whether you will not come again to this same enclosure when my bust
shall be placed there? Then--"
Oswald interrupted her quickly and said, "In the shining splendour of
youth and beauty can you talk thus to one whom misfortune and suffering
have already bent towards the grave?" "Ah!" replied Corinne, "the storm
may in a moment snap asunder those flowers that now have their heads
upreared in life and bloom. Oswald, dear Oswald!" added she; "why should
you not be happy? Why--" "Never interrogate me," replied Lord Nelville,
"you have your secrets--I have mine, let us mutually respect each
other's silence. No--you know not what emotion I should feel were I
obliged to relate my misfortunes." Corinne was silent, and her steps in
leaving the temple were slower, and her looks more thoughtful.
She stopped beneath the portico:--"There," said she to Lord Nelville,
"was a most beautiful urn of porphyry, now transferred to St John of
Lateran; it contained the ashes of Agrippa, which were placed at the
foot of the statue that he had raised to himself. The ancients took so
much care to soften the idea of dissolution that they knew how to strip
it of every thing that was doleful and repulsive. There was, besides, so
much magnificence in their tombs that the contrast was less felt between
the blank of death and the splendours of life. It is true that the hope
of another world being less vivid among the Pagans than amongst
Christians, they endeavoured to dispute with death the future
remembrance which we place, without fear, in the bosom of the Eternal."
Oswald sighed and was silent. Melancholy ideas have many charms when we
have not been ourselves deeply wretched, but when grief in all its
asperity has seized upon the soul, we no longer hear without shuddering
certain words which formerly only excited in us reveries more or less
pleasing.
Chapter iii.
On the way to St Peter's the bridge of St Angelo is passed, and Corinne
and Lord Nelville crossed it on foot. "It was on this bridge," said
Oswald, "that, in returning from the Capitol, I for the first time
thought deeply of you." "I did not flatter myself," replied Corinne,
"that the coronation at the Capitol would have procured me a friend, but
however, in the pursuit of fame it was always my endeavour to make
myself beloved.--What would fame be to woman without such a hope?" "Let
us stop here a few minutes," said Oswald. "What remembrance of past ages
can produce such welcome recollections as this spot, which brings to
mind the day when first I saw you." "I know not whether I deceive
myself," replied Corinne; "but it seems to me that we become more dear
to one another in admiring together those monuments which speak to the
soul by true grandeur. The edifices of Rome are neither cold nor dumb,
they have been conceived by genius, and consecrated by memorable events.
Perhaps, Oswald, it is even necessary that we should be enamoured of
such a character as yours, in order to derive such pleasure from feeling
with you all that is noble and fine in the universe." "Yes," replied
Lord Nelville; "but in beholding you, and listening to your
observations, I feel no want of other wonders." Corinne thanked him in a
bewitching smile.
On their way to St Peter's they stopped before the castle of St Angelo.
"There," said Corinne, "is one of those edifices whose exterior is most
original; this is the tomb of Adrian, which, changed into a fortress by
the Goths, bears the double character of its first and second
destination. Built for the dead, an impenetrable enclosure surrounds it;
and, nevertheless, the living have added something hostile to it by the
external fortifications, which form a contrast with the silence and
noble inutility of a funereal monument. On the top is seen an angel of
bronze with a naked sword[7], and in the interior the most cruel prisons
are contrived. Every event of Roman history, from Adrian to our time, is
connected with this monument. It was here that Belisarius defended
himself against the Goths, and, almost as barbarous as they who attacked
him, threw at his enemy the beautiful statues that adorned the interior
of the edifice[8]. Crescentius, Arnault de Brescia, Nicolas Rienzi,
those friends of Roman liberty who so often mistook memories for hopes,
defended themselves for a long time in this imperial tomb. I love these
stones which are connected with so many illustrious facts. I love this
luxury of the master of the world--a magnificent tomb. There is
something great in the man who, possessing every enjoyment, every
terrestrial pomp, is not dismayed from making preparations for his death
a long time before hand. Moral ideas and disinterested sentiments fill
the soul when it in a manner breaks through the boundaries of mortality.
"It is from here that we ought to perceive St Peter's. The pillars
before it were to extend as far as here:--such was the superb plan of
Michael Angelo; he expected, at least, that it would be so finished
after his death; but the men of our days no longer think of posterity.
When once enthusiasm has been turned into ridicule every thing except
money and power is destroyed." "It is you who will revive that
sentiment," cried Lord Nelville. "Who ever experienced the happiness I
enjoy? Rome shewn by you, Rome interpreted by imagination and genius,
_Rome, that is a world animated by sentiment, without which the world
itself is a desert_[9]. Ah, Corinne! what will succeed to these days,
more happy than my heart and my fate permit!" Corinne answered him with
sweetness: "All sincere affections proceed from heaven, Oswald! Why
should it not protect what it inspires? To that Power belongs our fate."
At that moment St Peter's appeared to them, the greatest building that
man has ever raised; for the pyramids of Egypt themselves are inferior
to it in height. "Perhaps," said Corinne, "I ought to have shewn you the
finest of our buildings last, but that is not my system. It is my
opinion that to beget a sensibility for the fine arts, we must begin by
beholding objects that inspire a deep and lively admiration. This
sentiment once felt, reveals, if I may so express myself, a new sphere
of ideas, and renders us afterwards more capable of loving, and of
judging, what even in an inferior order recalls the first impression we
have received. All those gradations, those prudent methods, one tint
after another, to prepare for great effects, are not to my taste; we
cannot arrive at the sublime by degrees; infinite distances separate it
even from that which is only beautiful." Oswald felt an altogether
extraordinary emotion on arriving opposite St Peter's. It was the first
time that the work of man had produced upon him the same effect as one
of the wonders of nature. This is the only work of art, now on our
earth, possessing that kind of grandeur which characterises the
immediate works of the creation. Corinne enjoyed the astonishment of
Oswald. "I have chosen," said she, "a day when the sun is in all its
lustre, to shew you this edifice. I have in reserve for you a still more
exquisite, more religious pleasure, when you shall contemplate it by
moonlight: but you must first witness the most brilliant intellectual
feast--the genius of man adorned with the magnificence of nature."
The square of St Peter is surrounded by pillars--those at a distance of
a light, and those near of a massive structure. The ground, which is
upon a gentle ascent up to the portico of the church, still adds to the
effect which it produces. An obelisk, 80 feet high, stands in the middle
of the square, but its height appears as nothing in presence of the
cupola of St Peter's. The form of an obelisk alone has something in it
that pleases the imagination; its summit is lost in the air, and seems
to lift the mind of man to heaven. This monument, which was constructed
in Egypt to adorn the baths of Caligula, and which Sixtus Quintus caused
to be transported to the foot of the temple of St Peter, this
cotemporary of so many centuries, which have spent their fury upon it in
vain, inspires us with a sentiment of respect; man, sensible of his own
fleeting existence, cannot contemplate without emotion that which
appears to be immutable. At some distance on each side of the obelisk
are two fountains, whose waters form a perpetual and abundant cascade.
This murmuring of waters, which we are accustomed to hear in the open
country, produces, in this enclosure, an entirely new sensation; but
this sensation is quite in harmony with that to which the aspect of a
majestic temple gives birth.
Painting and sculpture, imitating generally the human figure or some
object existing in nature, awaken in our soul perfectly clear and
positive ideas; but a beautiful architectural monument has not any
determinate meaning, if it may be so expressed, so that we are seized,
in contemplating it, with that kind of aimless reverie, which leads us
into a boundless ocean of thought. The sound of fountains harmonises
with all these vague and deep impressions; it is uniform as the edifice
is regular.
"Eternal motion, and eternal rest,"
are thus blended with each other. It is particularly in a spot like this
that Time seems stript of his power, for he appears no more able to dry
up the fountains than to shake these immovable stones. The waters, which
spout in sheaves from these fountains, are so light and cloudlike that
on a fine day the rays of the sun produce on them little rainbows,
formed of the most beautiful colours.
"Stop here a moment," said Corinne to Lord Nelville, when they had
already reached the portico of the church; "stop a little before you
lift up the curtain which covers the door of the temple. Does not your
heart beat as you approach this sanctuary? And do not you feel at the
moment of entrance all that excites expectation of a solemn event?"
Corinne herself lifted up the curtain and held it to let Nelville pass;
she displayed so much grace in this attitude that the first look of
Oswald was to admire her as she stood, and for some moments she
engrossed his whole observation. However, he proceeded into the temple,
and the impression which he received beneath these immense arches was so
deep, and so solemn, that love itself was no longer able to fill his
soul entirely. He walked slowly by the side of Corinne, both preserving
silence. Indeed here every thing seemed to command silence; the least
noise re-echoes to such a distance that no language seems worthy of
being repeated in an abode which may almost be called eternal! Prayer
alone, the voice of calamity, produces a powerful emotion in these vast
regions; and when beneath these immense domes you hear some old man
dragging his feeble steps along the polished marble, watered with so
many tears, you feel that man is imposing even by the infirmity of his
nature which subjects his divine soul to so many sufferings; and that
Christianity, the worship of suffering, contains the true guide for the
conduct of man upon earth.
Corinne interrupted the reverie of Oswald, and said to him, "You have
seen Gothic churches in England and in Germany; you must have remarked
that they have a much more gloomy effect than this church. There was
something mysterious in the Catholicism of the northern nations; ours
speaks to the imagination by external objects. Michael Angelo said on
beholding the cupola of the Pantheon, 'I will place it in the air;' and,
in effect, St Peter's is a temple built upon a church. There is some
connection between the ancient religions and Christianity, in the effect
which the interior of this edifice produces upon the imagination. I
often come and walk here to restore to my soul that serenity which it
sometimes loses: the sight of such a monument is like continual and
sustained music, which waits to do you good when you approach; and
certainly we must reckon among the claims of our nation to glory, the
patience, the courage and the disinterestedness of the heads of the
church, who have devoted one hundred and fifty years, so much money, and
so much labour, to the completion of an edifice which they who built it
could not expect to enjoy[10]. It is even a service rendered to the
public morals to present a nation with a monument which is the emblem of
so many noble and generous ideas." "Yes," answered Oswald; "here the
arts possess grandeur, and imagination and invention are full of genius;
but how is the dignity of man himself protected here! What
institutions! what feebleness in the greater part of the governments of
Italy! and, nevertheless, what subjugation in the mind!" "Other
nations," interrupted Corinne, "have borne the yoke the same as we, and
have lacked the imagination to dream of another fate.
'Servi siam sì, ma servi ognor frementi.'
'_Yes! we are slaves, but slaves ever quivering with hope,_'
says Alfieri, the most bold of our modern writers. There is so much soul
in our fine arts that perhaps one day our character will be equal to our
genius.
"Behold," continued Corinne, "those statues placed on the tombs, those
pictures in mosaic--patient and faithful copies of the masterpieces of
our great artists. I never examine St Peter's in detail, because I do
not wish to discover those multiplied beauties which disturb in some
degree the impression of the whole. But what a monument is that, where
the masterpieces of the human mind appear superfluous ornaments! This
temple is like a world by itself; it affords an asylum against heat and
cold; it has its own peculiar season--a perpetual spring, which the
external atmosphere can never change. A subterraneous church is built
beneath this temple;--the popes, and several foreign potentates, are
buried there: Christina after her abdication--the Stuarts since the
overthrow of their dynasty. Rome has long afforded an asylum to exiles
from every part of the world. Is not Rome herself dethroned? Her aspect
affords consolation to kings, fallen like herself.
'Cadono le citta, cadono i regni,
E l'uom, d'esser mortal, par che si sdegni.'
'_Cities fall. Empires disappear,
and yet man is angry at being mortal!_'
"Place yourself here," said Corinne to Lord Nelville, "near the altar
in the middle of the cupola; you will perceive through the iron grating,
the church of the dead, which is beneath our feet, and lifting up your
eyes, their ken will hardly reach the summit of the vault. This dome,
viewing it even from below, inspires us with a sentiment of terror; we
imagine that we see an abyss suspended over our head. All that is beyond
a certain proportion causes man, limited creature as he is, an
invincible dread. That which we know is as inexplicable as that which is
unknown, but then we are accustomed to our habitual darkness, whilst new
mysteries terrify us and disturb our faculties.
"All this church is ornamented with antique marble, and its stones know
more than we concerning the ages that are past. There is the statue of
Jupiter, which has been converted into St Peter, by adding the nimbus to
the head. The general expression of this temple perfectly characterises
the mixture of gloomy tenets with brilliant ceremonies; a depth of
sadness in ideas, but the softness and vivacity of the south in external
application; severe intentions, but mild interpretations; the Christian
theology, and the images of Paganism; in a word, the most admirable
union of splendour and majesty that man can infuse into his worship of
the deity.
"The tombs, decorated by the wonders of the fine arts, do not present
death under a formidable aspect. It is not altogether like the ancients,
who engraved dances and games upon their sarcophagi; but the mind is
abstracted from the contemplation of a coffin by the masterpieces of
genius. They recall immortality, even upon the altar of death; and the
imagination animated by the admiration which they inspire, does not
feel, as in the north, silence and cold, the immutable guardians of
sepulchres." "Without doubt," said Oswald, "we wish death to be
surrounded by sadness; and even before we were enlightened by
Christianity our ancient mythology, our Ossian, made lamentations and
dirges concomitants of the tomb. Here one wishes to forget and to enjoy.
I know not whether I should be desirous of such a benefit from your fine
sky." "Do not believe, however," replied Corinne, "that our character is
light, or our mind frivolous; it is only vanity that causes frivolity.
Indolence may introduce some intervals of sleep, or of forgetfulness
into our lives, but it neither wears out nor dries up the heart; and
unfortunately for us we may be aroused from this state by passions more
deep, and more terrible than those of souls habitually active."
In finishing these words, Corinne and Lord Nelville approached the door
of the church. "Another glance towards this immense sanctuary," said she
to Nelville: "See how little man appears in presence of religion, even
when we are reduced to consider only its material emblem! See what
immobility, what eternity, mortals can give to their works, whilst they
themselves pass away so rapidly, and only survive themselves by their
genius! This temple is an image of the infinite, and there is no limit
to the sentiments to which it gives birth--to the ideas which it
revives--to the immense quantity of years which it recalls to our
reflection, either of past or future ages; and on quitting its walls we
seem to pass from celestial thoughts to worldly interests, from the
eternity of religion to the atmosphere of time."
When they were outside the church Corinne pointed out to Nelville Ovid's
Metamorphoses, which were represented on the gates in basso-relievo. "We
are not scandalised in Rome," said she to him, "with the images of
Paganism when they have been consecrated by the fine arts. The wonders
of genius always make a religious impression on the soul, and we make an
offering to the Christian religion of all the masterpieces which other
modes of worship have inspired." Oswald smiled at this explanation.
"Believe me, my lord," continued Corinne, "there is much sincerity in
the sentiments of nations who possess a very lively imagination. But
to-morrow if you choose I will conduct you to the Capitol. I have, I
hope, many other walks to propose to you. When they are finished will
you go? Will you--" She stopped, fearing she had said too much. "No
Corinne," replied Oswald; "no, I will never renounce that gleam of
happiness which my guardian angel, perhaps, causes to shine upon me from
the height of heaven."