[Illustration]
Chapter i.
After the day which had passed, Oswald could not close his eyes during
the night. He had never been so near sacrificing every thing to Corinne.
He did not even desire to know her secret; or rather, before he was
acquainted with it, he wished to contract a solemn engagement, to
consecrate his life to her. For some hours uncertainty seemed banished
from his mind; and he took pleasure in composing, in his thoughts, the
letter which he should write to her on the morrow, and which would
decide his fate. But this confidence in happiness, this reliance upon
resolution, was of no long duration. His thoughts soon reverted to the
past, he remembered that he had loved, much less, it is true, than he
loved Corinne; and the object of his first choice could not be compared
to her; but nevertheless it was this sentiment which had hurried him
away to thoughtless actions, to actions which had torn the heart of his
father.--"Ah! who knows," cried he, "whether he would not fear equally
to-day, lest his son should forget his native country and the duties
which he owes it?"
"Oh thou!" said he, addressing the portrait of his father, "thou, the
best friend I shall ever have upon earth, I can no longer hear thy
voice, but teach me by that silent look which yet retains such power
over my soul, inform me what I am to do, that now at least in thy
celestial abode, thou mayest be satisfied with the conduct of thy son!
Forget not, however, that need of happiness which consumes mortal
man--be indulgent in heaven, as thou wert upon earth! I shall become
better if I am allowed to taste of happiness; if I am permitted to live
with this angelic creature, to have the honour of protecting, of saving
such a woman.--Of saving her?" continued he suddenly; "and from what?
From a life of homage, of fame, and of independence!"--This reflection,
which originated in himself, terrified him like an inspiration of his
father.
In conflicts of sentiment, who has not felt that kind of secret
superstition which makes us take our own thoughts for presages, and our
sufferings for a warning from heaven? Ah! how bitter is the struggle
between passion and conscience, in susceptible minds!
Oswald paced his chamber under the most cruel agitation, sometimes
stopping to look at the moon, which in Italy is so mild and so
beautiful. The aspect of nature inspires resignation; but it is without
effect upon a mind racked with uncertainty. The next day arrived without
bringing any relief to his distracted thoughts, and when the Count
d'Erfeuil and Mr Edgermond came to visit him, they were uneasy as to the
state of his health, so much was he altered by the anxieties of the
night. The Count d'Erfeuil was the first who spoke.--"It must be
allowed," said he, "that yesterday's entertainment was charming. Corinne
is a most admirable woman. I lost half her words, but I understood
everything from her voice and her countenance. What a pity it is, that a
rich lady should be possessed of this talent! For if she were in humbler
circumstances, and unrestrained as she is, she might embrace the stage
as a profession; and to have an actress like her, would be the glory of
Italy."
Oswald received a painful impression from this speech, and yet could
not tell how to make it known. For there was that about the Count, that
one could not be angry at what he said, even though it were disagreeable
to one's feelings. None but sensitive minds understand those delicate
precautions which they owe each other: self-love, so alive to every
thing that affects itself, hardly ever thinks of the susceptibility of
others.
Mr Edgermond praised Corinne in the most becoming and flattering terms.
Oswald answered him in English, in order to relieve the conversation
about Corinne from the disagreeable eulogiums of the Count. "I see I am
one too many here," said the Count; "well I will pay a visit to Corinne:
she will not be sorry I dare say to hear my observations upon her acting
yesterday evening. I have some advice to give her, too, upon details;
but these details are very essential to the effect of the whole: she is
really so astonishing a woman that one should neglect nothing to assist
her in attaining perfection.--And besides," said he, inclining towards
Nelville's ear, "I wish to encourage her to play tragedy more often:
'tis a certain way to get married by some foreigner of distinction who
may pass through this city. As to you and me, my dear Oswald, that idea
does not concern us, we are too much accustomed to charming women to
commit foolish things; but who knows? a German prince, or a Spanish
grandee--" At these words Oswald rose up almost beside himself, and it
is impossible to conceive what would have been the issue, if the Count
d'Erfeuil had perceived his emotion; but he was so satisfied with his
last reflection, that he tripped away lightly, not in the least
suspecting that he had offended Lord Nelville: had he known it, though
he loved him as much as man could love another, he would certainly have
remained. The brilliant valour of the Count, contributed still more than
his self-love to render him blind to his defects. As he was extremely
delicate in everything that regarded honour, he did not imagine that he
could be wanting with respect to sensibility; and believing himself, not
without reason, amiable and brave, he was pleased with his lot, and did
not suspect there was any more profound way of regarding life than his
own.
None of the sentiments which agitated Oswald had escaped Mr Edgermond,
and when the Count d'Erfeuil was gone, he said to him--"My dear Oswald,
I take my leave,--I am going to Naples."--"Why so soon?" answered
Nelville. "Because it is not good for me to stay here," continued
Edgermond; "I am fifty years of age, and nevertheless I am not sure that
Corinne would not make a fool of me."--"And even in that case,"
interrupted Oswald, "what would be the consequence?"--"Such a woman is
not formed to live in Wales," replied Mr Edgermond; "believe me, my dear
Oswald, only Englishwomen are fit for England: it does not become me to
give you advice, I need not assure you that I shall not mention a word
of what I have seen; but with all Corinne's accomplishments, I should
say, with Thomas Walpole, _of what use is all that at home_? And, you
know the _home_ is all with us, all for our women at least. Imagine to
yourself your beautiful Italian alone, while you are hunting or
attending your duty in Parliament; imagine her leaving you at dessert to
get tea ready against you shall leave table! Dear Oswald, depend upon it
our women possess those domestic virtues which are to be found nowhere
else. The men in Italy have nothing to do but to please the women;
therefore the more attractive they are the better. But with us, where
men have active pursuits, women must be satisfied with the shade. That
it would be a great pity to condemn Corinne to such a destiny, I freely
acknowledge. I should be glad to see her upon the throne of England; but
not beneath my humble roof. My lord, I knew your mother, whose loss was
so much lamented by your worthy father: she was a lady in every respect
like my young cousin. Such is the wife, which, were I at a proper time
of life, I should choose. Adieu, my dear friend, do not be offended at
what I have said, for nobody can be a greater admirer of Corinne than I
am, and I own to you that after all were I at your time of life, I doubt
whether I could have sufficient fortitude to renounce the hope of
becoming agreeable to her."--In finishing, these words, he took the hand
of Oswald, squeezed it cordially, and departed without receiving a word
in reply. But Mr Edgermond comprehended the cause of his silence, and
satisfied with a pressure of the hand from Oswald in answer to his own,
he went away, impatient himself to finish a conversation which was
painful to him.
Of all that he had said, only one word had penetrated the heart of
Oswald, and that was the recollection of his mother, and his father's
profound attachment to her. He had lost her when he was only fourteen
years of age, but he recollected her virtues with the most heart-felt
reverence, as well as that timidity and reserve which characterised
them.--"Fool that I am," cried he, when alone, "I wish to know what kind
of wife my father destined for me, and do I not know it, since I can
call to mind the image of my mother whom he so tenderly loved? What do I
want more? Why deceive myself in feigning ignorance of what would be his
sentiments now, were it in my power to consult his will?" It was,
however, a terrible task for Oswald to return to Corinne, after what had
passed the evening before, without saying something in confirmation of
the sentiments which he had expressed. His agitation and his trouble
became so violent, that they affected a ruptured blood-vessel which he
thought had completely healed up, but which now re-opened and began to
bleed afresh. Whilst his servants, in affright, called everywhere for
assistance, he secretly wished that the end of life might terminate his
sufferings.--"If I could die," said he, "after having seen Corinne once
more, after having heard her again call me her Romeo!"--Tears rolled
down his cheeks; they were the first tears he had shed for the sake of
another since the death of his father.
He wrote to Corinne informing her of his accident, and some melancholy
words terminated his letter. Corinne had begun this day under the most
deceitful auspices: happy in the impression she conceived she had made
upon Oswald, believing herself beloved, she was happy; nor did busy
thought conjure up any reflection not in unison with what she so much
desired. A thousand circumstances ought to have mingled considerable
fear with the idea of espousing Lord Nelville; but as there was more
passion than foresight in her character, governed by the present, and
not diving into the future, this day, which was to cost her so many
pangs, dawned upon her as the most pure and serene of her life.
On receiving Oswald's note, her soul was a prey to the most cruel
feelings: she believed him in imminent danger, and set out immediately
on foot, traversing the Corso at the hour when all the city were walking
there, and entered the house of Oswald in face of all the first society
of Rome. She had not taken time to reflect, and had walked so fast, that
when she reached the chamber, she could not breathe, or utter a single
word. Lord Nelville conceived all that she had risked to come and see
him, and exaggerating the consequences of this action, which in England
would have entirely ruined the reputation of an unmarried woman, he felt
penetrated with generosity, love, and gratitude, and rising up, feeble
as he was, he pressed Corinne to his heart, and cried:--"My dearest
love! No, I never will abandon you! After having exposed yourself on my
account! When I ought to repair--" Corinne comprehended what he would
say, and as she gently disengaged herself from his arms, interrupted him
thus, having first enquired how he was:--"You are deceived, my lord; in
coming to see you I do nothing that most of my countrywomen would not do
in my place. I knew you were ill--you are a stranger here--you know
nobody but me; it is therefore my duty to take care of you. Were it
otherwise, ought not established forms to yield to those real and
profound sentiments, which the danger or the grief of a friend give
birth to? What would be the fate of a woman if the rules of social
propriety, permitting her to love, forbade that irresistible emotion
which makes us fly to succour the object of our affection? But I repeat
to you, my lord, you need not be afraid that I have compromised myself
by coming hither. My age and my talents allow me, at Rome, the same
liberty as a married woman. I do not conceal from my friends that I am
come to see you. I know not whether they blame me for loving you; but
that fact admitted, I am certain that they do not think me culpable in
devoting myself entirely to you."
On hearing these words, so natural and so sincere, Oswald experienced a
confused medley of different feelings. He was moved with the delicacy of
Corinne's answer; but he was almost vexed that his first impression was
not just. He could have wished that she had committed some great fault
in the eyes of the world, in order that this very fault, imposing upon
him the duty of marrying her, might terminate his indecision. He was
offended at this liberty of manners in Italy, which prolonged his
anxiety by allowing him so much happiness, without annexing to it any
condition. He could have wished that honour had commanded what he
desired, and these painful thoughts produced new and dangerous effects.
Corinne, notwithstanding the dreadful alarm she was in, lavished upon
him the most soothing attentions.
Towards the evening, Oswald appeared more oppressed; and Corinne, on her
knees by the side of his bed, supported his head in her arms, though she
was herself racked with more internal pain than he. This tender and
affecting care made a gleam of pleasure visible through his
sufferings.--"Corinne," said he to her, in a low voice, "read in this
volume, which contains the thoughts of my father, his reflections on
death. Do not think," he continued, seeing the terror of Corinne; "that
I feel myself menaced with it. But I am never ill without reading over
these consoling reflections. I then fancy that I hear them from his own
mouth; besides, my love, I wish you to know what kind of man my father
was; you will the better comprehend the cause of my grief, and of his
empire over me, as well as all that I shall one day confide to
you."--Corinne took this manuscript, which Oswald never parted from, and
in a trembling voice read the following pages.
"Oh ye just, beloved of the Lord! you can speak of death without fear;
for you it is only a change of habitation, and that which you quit is
perhaps the least of all! Oh numberless worlds, which in our sight fill
the boundless region of space! unknown communities of God's creatures;
communities of His children, scattered throughout the firmament and
ranged beneath its vaults, let our praises be joined to yours! We are
ignorant of your condition, whether you possess the first, second, or
last share of the generosity of the Supreme Being; but in speaking of
death or of life, of time past or of time to come, we assimilate our
interests with those of all intelligent and sensible beings, no matter
where placed, or by what distance separated from us. Families of
peoples! Families of nations! Assemblage of worlds! you say with us,
Glory to the Master of the Heavens, to the King of Nature, to the God of
the Universe! Glory and homage to Him, who by his will can convert
sterility into abundance, shadow into reality, and death itself into
eternal life.
"Undoubtedly the end of the just is a desirable death; but few amongst
us, few amongst our forefathers have witnessed it. Where is the man who
could approach without fear the presence of the Eternal? Where is the
man who has loved God unremittingly, who has served Him from his youth,
and who, attaining an advanced age, finds in his recollections no
subject of uneasiness? Where is the man, moral in all his actions,
without ever thinking of the praise and the reward of public opinion?
Where is that man, so rare among the human species, who is worthy to
serve as a model to all? Where is he? Where is he? Ah! if he exist
amongst us, let our reverence and respect surround him; and ask, you
will do wisely to ask, to be present at his death, as at the sublimest
of earthly spectacles: only arm yourself with courage to follow him to
that bed, so repulsive to our feelings, from which he will never rise.
He foresees it; he is certain of it; serenity reigns in his countenance,
and his forehead seems encircled with a celestial aureole: he says, with
the apostle, _I know in whom I have believed_; and this confidence
animates his countenance, even when his strength is exhausted. He
already contemplates his new country, but without forgetting that which
he is about to quit: he gives himself up to his Creator and to his God,
without forgetting those sentiments which have charmed him during his
life.
"Is it a faithful spouse, who according to the laws of nature must be
the first of all his connections to follow him: he consoles her, he
dries her tears, he appoints a meeting with her in that abode of
felicity of which he can form no idea without her. He recalls to her
mind those happy days which they have spent together; not to rend the
heart of a tender friend, but to increase their mutual confidence in the
goodness of heaven. He also reminds the companion of his fortunes, of
that tender love which he has ever felt for her; not to give additional
poignancy to that grief which he wishes to assuage, but to inspire her
with the sweet idea that two lives have grown upon the same stalk; and
that by their union they will become an additional defence to each other
in that dark futurity where the pity of the Supreme God is the last
refuge of our thoughts. Alas! is it possible to form a just conception
of all the emotions which penetrate a loving soul at the moment when a
vast solitude presents itself to our eyes, at the moment when the
sentiments, the interests upon which we have subsisted during so many
smiling years, are about to vanish for ever? Ah! you who are to survive
this being like unto yourself whom heaven had given you for your
support; that being who was every thing to you, and whose looks bid you
an agonizing adieu, you will not refuse to place your hand upon an
expiring heart, in order that its last palpitation may still speak to
you when all other language has failed! And shall we blame you, faithful
pair, if you had desired that your mortal remains should be deposited in
the same resting place? Gracious God, awaken them together; or if one
of them only has merited that favour, if only one of them must join the
small number of the elect, let the other be informed of it; let the
other perceive the light of angels at the moment when the fate of the
happy shall be proclaimed, in order that he may possess one moment of
joy before he sinks into eternal night.
"Ah! perhaps we wander when we endeavour to describe the last days of
the man of sensibility, of the man who beholds death advance with hasty
strides, who sees it ready to separate him from all the objects of his
affection.
"He revives, and regains a momentary strength in order that his last
words may serve for the instruction of his children. He says to
them--'Do not be afraid to witness the approaching end of your father,
of your old friend.--It is in obedience to a law of nature that he quits
before you, this earth which he entered first. He teaches you courage,
and nevertheless he leaves you with grief. He would certainly have
wished to assist you a little longer with his experience--to walk a
little longer side by side with you through all those perils with which
your youth is surrounded; _but life has no defence in the hour allotted
for our descent to the tomb_. You will now live alone in the midst of a
world from which I am about to disappear; may you reap in abundance the
gifts which Providence has sown in it; but do not forget that this world
itself is only a transient abode, and that you are destined for another
more permanent one. We shall perhaps see one another again; and in some
other region, in the presence of my God, I shall offer for you as a
sacrifice, my prayers and my tears! Love then religion, which is so rich
in promise! love religion, the last bond of union between fathers and
their children, between death and life!--Approach, that I may behold
you once more! May the benediction of a servant of God light on
you!'--He dies!--O, heavenly angels, receive his soul, and leave us upon
earth the remembrance of his actions, of his thoughts, and of his
hopes!"[25]
The emotion of Oswald and Corinne had frequently interrupted this
reading. At length they were obliged to give it up. Corinne feared for
the effects of Oswald's grief, which vented itself in torrents of tears,
and suffered the bitterest pangs at beholding him in this condition, not
perceiving that she herself was as much afflicted as he. "Yes," said he,
stretching his hand to her, "dear friend of my heart, thy tears are
mingled with mine. Thou lamentest with me that guardian angel, whose
last embrace I yet feel, whose noble look I yet behold; perhaps it is
thou whom he has chosen for my comforter--perhaps--" "No, no," cried
Corinne; "he has not thought me worthy of it." "What is it you say?"
interrupted Oswald. Corinne was alarmed at having revealed what she so
much wished to conceal, and repeated what had escaped her, in another
form, saying--"He would not think me worthy of it!"--This phrase, so
altered, dissipated the disquietude which the first had excited in the
heart of Oswald, and he continued, undisturbed by any fears, to
discourse with Corinne concerning his father.
The physicians arrived and dissipated somewhat the alarm of Corinne; but
they absolutely forbade Lord Nelville to speak till the ruptured
blood-vessel was perfectly closed. For a period of six whole days
Corinne never quitted Oswald, and prevented him from uttering a word,
gently imposing silence upon him whenever he wished to speak. She found
the art of varying the hours by reading, music, and sometimes by a
conversation of which the burden was supported by herself alone; now
serious, now playful, her animation of spirits kept up a continual
interest. All this charming and amiable attention concealed that
disquietude which internally preyed upon her, and which it was so
necessary to conceal from Lord Nelville; though she herself did not
cease one instant to be a martyr to it. She perceived almost before
Oswald himself what he suffered, nor was she deceived by the courage he
exerted to conceal it; she always anticipated everything that would be
likely to relieve him; only endeavouring to fix his attention as little
as possible upon her assiduous cares for him. However, when Oswald
turned pale, the colour would also abandon the lips of Corinne; and her
hands trembled when stretched to his assistance; but she struggled
immediately to appear composed, and often smiled when her eyes were
suffused with tears. Sometimes she pressed the hand of Oswald against
her heart, as if she would willingly impart to him her own life. At
length her cares succeeded, and Oswald recovered.
"Corinne," said he to her, as soon as he was permitted to speak: "why
has not Mr Edgermond, my friend, witnessed the days which you have spent
by my bedside? He would have seen that you are not less good than
admirable; he would have seen that domestic life with you is a scene of
continual enchantment, and that you only differ from every other woman,
by adding to every virtue the witchery of every charm. No, it is too
much--this internal conflict which rends my heart, and that has just
brought me to the brink of the grave, must cease. Corinne, thou shalt
know my secrets though thou concealest from me thine--and thou shalt
decide upon our fate."--"Our fate," answered Corinne, "if you feel as I
do, is never to part. But will you believe me that, till now, I have
not dared even entertain a wish to be your wife. What I feel is very
new to me: my ideas of life, my projects for the future, are all upset
by this sentiment, which every day disturbs and enslaves me more and
more. But I know not whether we can, whether we ought to be united!"--
"Corinne," replied Oswald, "would you despise me for having hesitated?
Would you attribute that hesitation to trifling considerations? Have you
not divined that the deep and sad remorse which for two years has preyed
upon me, could alone cause my indecision?"
"I have comprehended it," replied Corinne; "had I suspected you of a
motive foreign to the affections of the heart, you would not have been
he whom I loved. But life, I know, does not entirely belong to love.
Habits, recollections, and circumstances, create around us a sort of
entanglement that passion itself cannot destroy. Broken for a moment, it
will join again, and encircle our heart as the ivy twines round the oak.
My dear Oswald, let us not appropriate to any epoch of our existence
more than that epoch demands. Nothing is now so absolutely necessary to
my happiness as that you should not leave me. The terror of your sudden
departure pursues me incessantly. You are a stranger in this country,
and bound to it by no tie. Should you go, all my prospects would
fade,--you would leave your poor Corinne nothing but her grief. This
beautiful climate, these fine arts, that poetical inspiration which I
feel with you, and now, alas! with you alone, would for me become mute.
I never awake but trembling; when I behold the god of day, I know not
whether it deceives me by its resplendent beams, ignorant as I am
whether this city still contains you within its walls--you, the star of
my life! Oswald, remove this terror from my soul, and I will desire to
know nothing beyond the delightful security you will give me."--"You
know," replied Oswald, "that an Englishman can never abandon his native
country, that war may recall me, that--" "Oh, God!" cried Corinne, "are
you going to prepare me for the dreadful moment?" and she trembled in
every limb, as at the approach of some terrible danger.--"Well, if it be
so, take me with you as your wife--as your slave--" But, suddenly
recovering herself, she said--"Oswald, you will not go without giving me
previous notice of your departure, will you? Hear me: in no country
whatever, is a criminal conducted to execution without some hours being
allotted for him to collect his thoughts. It will not be by letter that
you will announce this to me--but you will come yourself in person--you
will hear me before you go far away! And shall I be able then--What, you
hesitate to grant my request?" cried Corinne. "No," replied he, "I do
not hesitate; since it is thy wish, I swear that should circumstances
require my departure, I will apprize thee of it beforehand, and that
moment will decide the fate of our future lives."--She then left the
room.