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Chapter i.
The next day, Oswald and Corinne felt much embarrassed at meeting each
other. Corinne was no longer confident of the love which she inspired.
Oswald was dissatisfied with himself; he knew there was a weakness in
his character which sometimes made him feel irritated at his own
sentiments as at a species of tyranny; and both endeavoured to avoid
speaking of their mutual affection. "I have to propose to-day," said
Corinne, "rather a solemn walk; but one that will certainly prove highly
interesting: let us go and see the tombs, let us go and see the last
asylum of those who inhabited the monuments whose ruins we have
contemplated."--"Yes," answered Oswald, "you have conjectured what will
suit the present disposition of my soul;" and he pronounced these words
in so dolorous an accent, that Corinne was silent some moments, not
daring to speak to him. But the desire of affording consolation to
Oswald, and the lively interest she took in every thing they were to see
together, inspired her with courage, and she said to him: "You know my
lord, that, among the ancients, so far was the aspect of the tombs from
dispiriting the living, that they endeavoured to excite a new emulation
by placing these tombs on the public roads, in order that by recalling
to young people the remembrance of illustrious men, they might silently
admonish them to follow their example." "Ah! how I envy all those,"
said Oswald, "whose grief is not mingled with remorse!" "Do you talk of
remorse," cried Corinne; "you whose only failings, if they may be so
called, are an excess of virtue, a scrupulosity of heart, an exalted
delicacy--" "Corinne, Corinne, do not approach that subject,"
interrupted Oswald, "in your happy country, sombre thoughts disappear
before the lustre of a brilliant sky; but that grief which has
penetrated to the depths of our soul, must for ever sap the foundation
of our existence." "You form an erroneous judgment of me," replied
Corinne; "I have already told you, that though I am formed by the nature
of my character, for lively enjoyment, I should suffer more exquisitely
than you if--" She did not conclude; but changed the discourse.--"My
only desire, my lord, is to divert your attention for a moment; I hope
for nothing more." The sweetness of this reply moved Lord Nelville, and
seeing a melancholy expression in the looks of Corinne, naturally so
interesting and so full of fire, he reproached himself for having
afflicted a woman, born for the most tender and lively sensations, and
endeavoured to atone for it. But the disquietude which Corinne
experienced with regard to the future intentions of Oswald, and the
possibility of his departure, entirely disturbed her accustomed
serenity.
She conducted Lord Nelville outside the gates of the city, where are to
be seen the ancient vestiges of the Appian way. These vestiges are
indicated in the midst of the Campagna, by the tombs to the right and to
the left, which extend out of sight for several miles beyond the walls.
The Romans would not permit their dead to be buried inside the city: the
emperors alone were allowed that privilege. One private citizen,
however, named Publius Bibulus, obtained this favour in reward of his
obscure virtues.--Cotemporaries are always more willing to honour
virtues of that description than any other.
It is the gate of St Sebastian, formerly called _Capene_, that conducts
to the Appian way. Cicero tells us, that the first tombs we meet after
passing this gate, are those of the Metelli, the Scipios, and the
Servilii. The family tomb of the Scipios has been found in this very
spot and since transplanted to the Vatican. It is almost a sacrilege to
displace the ashes of the dead or to change the aspect of ruins.
Imagination is more closely connected with morality than is generally
believed, and should not be offended. Among so many tombs which strike
our sight, names are ascribed to some without any positive certainty;
but even the emotion which this uncertainty inspires will not permit us
to contemplate any of these monuments with indifference. There are some
in which houses for the peasantry are built; for the Romans consecrated
an extensive space and vast edifices to the funereal urns of their
friends or their illustrious fellow-citizens. They were not influenced
by that dry principle of utility which fertilized a few corners of the
earth, while blasting with sterility the vast domain of sentiment and of
thought.
At some distance from the Appian way is seen a temple, raised by the
republic to Honour and Virtue; another to the god who caused Hannibal to
turn back, and also the fountain of Egeria, where Numa went to consult
the god of all good men,--conscience interrogated in solitude. It seems
that about these tombs no traces but those of virtue have subsisted. No
monument of the ages of crime is to be found by the side of those where
repose the illustrious dead; they are surrounded by an honourable space,
where the noblest memories may preserve their reign undisturbed.
The aspect of the country about Rome has something in it singularly
remarkable: undoubtedly it is a desert, for it contains neither trees
nor habitation; but the earth is covered with wild plants which the
energy of vegetation incessantly renews. These parasitic plants glide
among the tombs, adorn the ruins, and seem only there to honour the
dead. One would say, that proud Nature has rejected all the labours of
man, since Cincinnatus no longer guided the plough which furrowed her
bosom. She produces plants by chance, without permitting the living to
make use of her riches. These uncultivated plains must be displeasing to
the agriculturist, to administrators, to all those who speculate upon
the earth, and who would lay it under contribution to supply the wants
of man. But pensive minds, which are occupied as much by death as by
life, take pleasure in contemplating this Roman Campagna upon which the
present age has imprinted no trace; this land which cherishes its dead,
and covers them lovingly with useless flowers, with useless plants which
creep upon the earth, and never rise sufficiently to separate themselves
from the ashes which they appear to caress.
Oswald agreed that in this spot the mind felt more calm than it possibly
could any where else; besides, here the soul does not suffer so much
from the images that grief presents to it; one seems still to share with
those who are no more, the charms of that air, of that sun, and of that
verdure. Corinne observed the impression that Lord Nelville received,
and conceived some hopes from it: she did not flatter herself with being
able to console Oswald; she had not even wished to efface from his heart
the just regret he must feel at the loss of his father; but there is,
even in this regret, something tender and harmonious, which we must
endeavour to make known to those who have hitherto only felt its
bitterness; it is the only benefit we can confer upon them.
"Let us stop here," said Corinne, "opposite this tomb, the only one
which remains yet almost whole: it is not the tomb of a celebrated
Roman, it is that of Cecilia Metella, a young maiden to whom her father
has raised this monument." "Happy!" said Oswald, "happy are the children
who die in the arms of their father and receive death in the bosom of
him who gave them life; death itself then loses its sting." "Yes," said
Corinne; "happy are those not doomed to the wretched lot of orphans.
See, arms have been sculptured on this tomb, though it belongs to a
woman: but the daughters of heroes may have their monuments adorned with
the trophies of their fathers; what a beautiful union is that of
innocence and valour! There is an elegy of Propertius which paints
better than any other writing of antiquity, this dignity of woman among
the Romans, more imposing, more pure than the worship paid to them
during the age of chivalry. Cornelia, dying in her youth, addresses to
her husband the most affecting consolations and adieus, in which we feel
at every word, all that is respectable and sacred in family ties. The
noble pride of an unspotted life is painted in this majestic poetry of
the Latins, this poetry, noble and severe as the masters of the
world[17]. '_Yes_,' says Cornelia, '_no stain has sullied my life from
the nuptial bed to the funeral pyre; I have lived pure between the two
torches._' What an admirable expression" cried Corinne; "What a sublime
image! How worthy of envy is the lot of that woman who has been able to
preserve the most perfect unity in her destiny and carries but one
recollection to the grave: it is enough for a life!"
In finishing these words, the eyes of Corinne were filled with tears; a
cruel sentiment, a painful suspicion seized upon the heart of
Oswald.--"Corinne," cried he, "Corinne, has your delicate soul nothing
to reproach itself with? If I were able to dispose of myself, if I could
offer myself to you, should I have no rival in the past? Should I have
reason to be proud of my choice? Would no cruel jealousy disturb my
happiness?"--"I am free, and I love you as I never loved man before!"
answered Corinne--"What would you have more?--Must I be condemned to an
avowal, that before I have known you I have been deceived by my
imagination as to the interest which another excited in me? Is there not
in the heart of man a divine pity for the errors which sentiment, or
rather the illusion of sentiment, may have led us to commit?" In
finishing these words a modest blush covered her face. Oswald was
startled; but remained silent. There was in Corinne's look an expression
of repentance and timidity which did not permit him to judge with
rigour--a ray from heaven seemed to descend upon, and absolve her! He
took her hand, pressed it against his heart, and knelt before her,
without uttering anything, without promising anything; but contemplated
her with a look of love which gave the utmost latitude to hope.
"Believe me," said Corinne, to Lord Nelville--"let us form no plan for
the years to come. The most happy moments are those which a bountiful
chance gives us. Is it here then, is it in the midst of the tombs that
we should think of future days?"--"No," cried Lord Nelville, "I can
think of no future day that would be likely to part us! these four days
of absence have taught me too well that I now no longer exist but in
you!"--Corinne made no reply to these sweet expressions; but she
treasured them religiously in her heart; she was always fearful that in
prolonging the conversation upon that subject most interesting to her,
she might draw from Oswald a declaration of his future intentions,
before a longer acquaintance might render separation impossible. She
often, even designedly, turned his attention towards external
objects--like that Sultana in the Arabian Tales, who sought by a
thousand different recitals to awaken the interest of him she loved, in
order to postpone the decision of her fate till her charms and her wit
had completed their conquest.