[Illustration]
Chapter i.
Lord Nelville felt a lively desire that Mr Edgermond should enjoy the
conversation of Corinne, which was more than equivalent to her
improvised verses. The following day the same company assembled at her
house; and to elicit her sentiments, he turned the conversation upon
Italian literature, and provoked her natural vivacity, by affirming that
the English poets were much superior in energy and sensibility to those
of which Italy could boast.
"In the first place," said Corinne, "strangers are for the most part
acquainted only with our poets of the first rank--Dante, Petrarch,
Ariosto, Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio; whilst we have several others,
such as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaja, Parini, without reckoning
Sannazarius, Politian, &c., who have written in Latin, with as much
taste as genius; and all unite in their verses the utmost beauty of
colouring and harmony; all, with more or less talent, adorn the wonders
of nature and art with the imagery of speech. Without doubt our poets
cannot pretend to that profound melancholy, that knowledge of the human
heart which characterise yours; but does not this kind of superiority
belong more properly to philosophical writers than to poets? The
brilliant melody of Italian is more suitable to the splendour of
external objects than to meditation; our language is better adapted to
paint fury than sadness, because sentiments which arise from deep
reflection demand more metaphysical expressions, whilst the desire of
vengeance animates the imagination to the exclusion of grief. Cesarotti
has produced the best and most elegant translation of Ossian extant; but
it seems in reading it that the words possess in themselves an air of
festivity that forms a contrast with the sombre ideas of the poem. We
cannot help being charmed with our sweet expressions,--_the limpid
stream, the smiling plain, the cooling shade_, the same as with the
murmur of the waves, and variety of colours. What more do you expect
from poetry? Why would you ask of the nightingale, the meaning of her
song? She can only answer you by resuming the strain, and you cannot
comprehend it without yielding to the impression which it produces. The
measure of verse, harmonious rhymes, and those rapid terminations
composed of two short syllables whose sounds glide in the manner that
their name (_Sdruccioli_) indicates, sometimes imitate the light steps
of a dance; at others, more sombre tones recall the fury of the tempest
and the clangour of arms. In fact, our poetry is a wonder of the
imagination--we must only seek it in the various pleasures which it
affords."
"It must be allowed," replied Lord Nelville, "that you explain very
clearly the beauties and defects of your poetry; but how will you defend
your prose, in which those defects are to be found unaccompanied by the
beauties? That which is only loose and indefinite in poetry will become
emptiness in prose; and the crowd of common ideas which your poets
embellish with their melody and their images, are in prose, cold and
dry, while their vivacity of style renders them more fatiguing. The
language of the greater part of the prose-writers of the present day is
so declamatory, so diffuse, and so abundant in superlatives, that their
work seems written to order, in hackneyed phraseology, and for
conventional natures; it does not once enter into their heads that to
write well is to express one's thoughts and character. Their style is an
artificial web, a kind of literary mosaic, every thing in fact that is
foreign to their soul, and is made with the pen as any other mechanical
work is with the fingers. They possess in the highest degree the secret
of developing, commenting, inflating an idea, and, if I may use the
expression, of working a sentiment into a ferment. So much do they excel
in this, that one would be tempted to ask these writers, what the
African woman asked a French lady, who wore a large pannier under a long
dress:--'_Madam, is all that a part of yourself?_' In short, what real
existence is there in all this pomp of words which one true expression
would dissipate like a vain prestige."
"You forget," interrupted Corinne sharply; "first, Macchiavelli and
Boccacio; next Gravina, Filangieri, and in our days, Cesarotti, Verri,
Bettinelli, and so many others, in short, who know how to write and to
think[22]. But I agree with you that in the latter ages, unfortunate
circumstances having deprived Italy of its independence, its people have
lost all interest in truth and often even the possibility of speaking
it: from this has resulted the habit of sporting with words without
daring to approach a single idea. As they were certain of not being able
to obtain any influence over things by their writings, they were only
employed to display their wit, which is a sure way to end in having no
wit at all; for it is only in directing the mind towards some noble
object that ideas are acquired. When prose writers can no longer in any
way influence the happiness of a nation--when they only write to
dazzle--when, in fact, the road itself is the object of their journey,
they indulge in a thousand windings without advancing a step. The
Italians, it is true, fear new thoughts; but that is an effect of
indolence, and not of literary baseness. In their character, their
gaiety, and their imagination, there is much originality; and
nevertheless, as they take no pains to reflect, their general ideas do
not soar above mediocrity; their eloquence even, so animated when they
speak, has no character when they write; one would say that labour of
any kind freezes their faculties; it may also be added, that the nations
of the South are fettered by prose, and that poetry alone can express
their real sentiments. It is not thus in French literature," said
Corinne, addressing herself to the Count d'Erfeuil--"your prose writers
are often more eloquent, and even more poetic, than your poets."--"It is
true," answered the Count, "your assertion can be verified by truly
classical authorities:--Bossuet, La Bruyère, Montesquieu, and Buffon,
cannot be excelled; more particularly the first two, who are of the age
of Louis the Fourteenth, in whose praise too much cannot be said, for
they are perfect models for imitation. They are models that foreigners
ought to be as eager to imitate as the French themselves."--"I can
hardly think it desirable," answered Corinne, "for the whole world
entirely to lose their national colouring, as well as all originality of
sentiment and genius; and I am bold enough to tell you Count, that even
in your country, this literary orthodoxy, if I may so express myself,
which is opposed to every innovation, will in time render your
literature extremely barren. Genius is essentially creative; it bears
the character of the individual that possesses it. Nature, who has not
formed two leaves alike, has infused a still greater variety into the
human soul; imitation is therefore a species of death, since it robs
each one of his natural existence."
"You would not wish, fair stranger," replied the Count, "that we should
admit Teutonic barbarism amongst us--that we should copy Young's Night
Thoughts, and the _Concetti_ of the Italians and Spaniards. What would
become of the taste and elegance of our French style after such a
mixture?" Prince Castel-Forte, who had not yet spoken, said--"It seems
to me that we all stand in need of each other: the literature of every
country discovers to him who is acquainted with it a new sphere of
ideas. It was Charles the Fifth himself who said--that _a man who knows
four languages, is worth four men_. If that great political genius
judged thus, in regard to the conduct of affairs, how much more true is
it with respect to literature? Foreigners all study French; thus they
command a more extended horizon than you, who do not study foreign
languages. Why do you not more often take the trouble of learning
them?--You would thus preserve your own peculiar excellence, and
sometimes discover your deficiencies."