[28] I asked a little Tuscan girl which was the handsomer, she or her
sister? "Ah!" answered she, "_Il più bel viso è il mio_;"--Mine is the
most beautiful face.
[29] An Italian postillion, whose horse was dying, prayed for him,
saying. "_O Sant' Antonio, abbiate pietà dell' anima sua_;"--O Saint
Anthony, have mercy on his soul!
[30] Goëthe has a description of the carnival at Rome, which gives a
faithful and animated picture of that festival.
Chapter ii.
Oswald, since his calamity, had not found spirits to seek the pleasure
of music. He dreaded those ravishing strains so soothing to melancholy,
but which inflict pain, when we are oppressed by real grief. Music
awakens those bitter recollections which we are desirous to appease.
When Corinne sang, Oswald listened to the words she uttered; he
contemplated the expression of her countenance, it was she alone that
occupied him; but if in the streets of an evening, several voices were
joined, as it frequently happens in Italy, to sing the fine airs of the
great masters, he at first endeavoured to listen, and then retired,
because the emotion it excited, at once so exquisite and so indefinite,
renewed his pain. However, there was a magnificent concert to be given
in the theatre at Rome, which was to combine the talents of all the best
singers. Corinne pressed Lord Nelville to accompany her to this concert,
and he consented, expecting that his feelings would be softened and
refined by the presence of her he loved.
On entering her box, Corinne was immediately recognised, and the
remembrance of the Capitol adding to the interest which she usually
inspired, the theatre resounded with applause. From every part of the
house they cried, "Long live Corinne!" and the musicians themselves,
electrified by this general emotion, began to play victorious strains;
for men are led to associate triumph of every sort with war and battle.
Corinne was intimately affected with these universal tokens of
admiration and respect. The music, the applause, the _bravos_, and that
indefinable impression, which a multitude of people expressing one
sentiment always produces, awakened those feelings which, in spite of
her efforts to conceal them, appeared in her eyes suffused with tears,
and the palpitation of her heart equally visible. Oswald, jealous of
this emotion, approached her, saying in a low voice,--"It would be a
pity madam to snatch you from this brilliant popularity, it is certainly
equal to love, since it produces the same effect in your heart."--Having
spoken thus, he retired to the further end of the box without waiting
for any reply. These words produced the most cruel agitation in the
bosom of Corinne, and in a moment destroyed all the pleasure she
received from these expressions of applause, which principally gave her
delight because they were witnessed by Oswald.
The concert began--he who has not heard Italian singing can have no idea
of music! Italian voices are so soft and sweet, that they recall at once
the perfume of flowers, and the purity of the sky. Nature has destined
the music for the climate: one is like a reflection of the other. The
world is the work of one mind, expressed in a thousand different forms.
The Italians, during a series of ages, have been enthusiastically fond
of music. Dante, in his poem of purgatory, meets with one of the best
singers of his age; being entreated, he sings one of his delicious airs,
and the ravished spirits are lulled into oblivion of their sufferings,
until recalled by their guardian angel. The Christians, as well as the
pagans, have extended the empire of music beyond the grave. Of all the
fine arts, it is that which produces the most immediate effect upon the
soul. The others are directed to some particular idea; but this appeals
to the intimate source of our existence, and entirely changes our inmost
soul. What is said of Divine Grace, which suddenly transforms the heart,
may humanly speaking be applied to the power of melody; and among the
presentiments of the life to come, those which spring from music are
not to be despised.
Even the gaiety which the comic music of Italy is so well calculated to
excite, is not of that vulgar description which does not speak to the
imagination. At the very bottom of the mirth which it excites, will be
found poetical sensations and an agreeable reverie, which mere verbal
pleasantry never could inspire. Music is so fleeting a pleasure, that it
glides away almost at the same time we feel it, in such a manner, that a
melancholy impression is mingled with the gaiety which it excites; but
when expressive of grief, it also gives birth to a sweet sentiment. The
heart beats more quickly while listening to it, and the satisfaction
caused by the regularity of the measure, by reminding us of the brevity
of time, points out the necessity of enjoying it. You no longer feel any
void, any silence, around you; life is filled; the blood flows quickly;
you feel within you that motion which gives activity to life, and you
have no fear of the external obstacles with which it is beset.
Music redoubles the ideas which we possess of the faculties of the soul;
when listening to it we feel capable of the noblest efforts. Animated by
music, we march to the field of death with enthusiasm. This divine art
is happily incapable of expressing any base sentiment, any artifice, any
falsehood. Calamity itself, in the language of music, is stript of its
bitterness; it neither irritates the mind nor rends the heart. Music
gently raises that weight which almost constantly oppresses the heart
when we are formed for deep and serious affections; that weight which
sometimes becomes confounded with the very sense of our existence, so
habitual is the pain which it causes. It seems to us in listening to
pure and delectable sounds, that we are about to seize the secret of
the Creator, and penetrate the mystery of life. No language can express
this impression, for language drags along slowly behind primitive
impressions, as prose translators behind the footsteps of poets. It is
only a look that can give some idea of it; the look of an object you
love, long fixed upon you, and penetrating by degrees so deeply into
your heart, that you are at length obliged to cast down your eyes to
escape a happiness so intense, that, like the splendour of another life,
it would consume the mortal being who should presume stedfastly to
contemplate it.
The admirable exactness of two voices perfectly in harmony produces, in
the duets of the great Italian masters, a melting delight which cannot
be prolonged without pain. It is a state of pleasure too exquisite for
human nature; and the soul then vibrates like an instrument which a too
perfect harmony would break. Oswald had obstinately kept at a distance
from Corinne during the first part of the concert; but when the duet
began, with faintly-sounding voices, accompanied by wind instruments,
whose sounds were more pure than the voices themselves, Corinne covered
her face with her handkerchief, entirely absorbed in emotion; she wept,
but without suffering--she loved, and was undisturbed by any fear.
Undoubtedly the image of Oswald was present to her heart; but this image
was mingled with the most noble enthusiasm, and a crowd of confused
thoughts wandered over her soul: it would have been necessary to limit
these thoughts in order to render them distinct. It is said that a
prophet traversed seven different regions of heaven in a minute. He who
could thus conceive all that an instant might contain, must surely have
felt the sublime power of music by the side of the object he loved.
Oswald felt this power, and his resentment became gradually appeased.
The feelings of Corinne explained and justified everything; he gently
approached her, and Corinne heard him breathing by her side in the most
enchanting passage of this celestial music. It was too much--the most
pathetic tragedy could not have excited in her heart so much sensation
as this intimate sentiment of profound emotion which penetrated them
both at the same time, and which each succeeding moment, each new sound,
continually exalted. The words of a song have no concern in producing
this emotion--they may indeed occasionally excite some passing
reflection on love or death; but it is the indefinite charm of music
which blends itself with every feeling of the soul; and each one thinks
he finds in this melody, as in the pure and tranquil star of night, the
image of what he wishes for on earth.
"Let us retire," said Corinne; "I feel ready to faint." "What ails you?"
said Oswald, with uneasiness; "you grow pale. Come into the open air
with me; come." They went out together. Corinne, leaning on the arm of
Oswald, felt her strength revive from the consciousness of his support.
They both approached a balcony, and Corinne, with profound emotion, said
to her lover, "Dear Oswald, I am about to leave you for eight days."
"What do you tell me?" interrupted he. "Every year," replied she, "at
the approach of Holy Week, I go to pass some time in a convent, to
prepare myself for the solemnity of Easter." Oswald advanced nothing in
opposition to this intention; he knew that at this epoch, the greater
part of the Roman ladies gave themselves up to the most rigid devotion,
without however on that account troubling themselves very seriously
about religion during the rest of the year; but he recollected that
Corinne professed a different worship to his, and that they could not
pray together. "Why are you not," cried he, "of the same religion as
myself?" Having pronounced this wish, he stopped short. "Have not our
hearts and minds the same country?" answered Corinne. "It is true,"
replied Oswald; "but I do not feel less painfully all that separates
us." They were then joined by Corinne's friends; but this eight days'
absence so oppressed his heart that he did not utter a word during the
whole evening.
Chapter iii.
Oswald visited Corinne at an early hour, uneasy at what she had said to
him. He was received by her maid, who gave him a note from her mistress
informing him that she had entered the convent on that same morning,
agreeably to the intention of which he had been apprised by her, and
that she should not be able to see him until after Good Friday. She
owned to him that she could not find courage to make known her intention
of retiring so soon, in their conversation the evening before. This was
an unexpected stroke to Oswald. That house, which the absence of Corinne
now rendered so solitary, made the most painful impression upon his
mind; he beheld her harp, her books, her drawings, all that habitually
surrounded her; but she herself was no longer there. The recollection of
his father's house struck him--he shuddered and, unable to support
himself, sunk into a chair.
"In such a way as this," cried he, "I might learn her death! That mind,
so animated, that heart, throbbing with life, that dazzling form, in all
the freshness of vernal bloom, might be crushed by the thunderbolt of
fate, and the tomb of youth would be silent as that of age. Ah! what an
illusion is happiness! What a fleeting moment stolen from inflexible
Time, ever watching for his prey! Corinne! Corinne! you must not leave
me; it was the charm of your presence which deprived me of reflection;
all was confusion in my thoughts, dazzled as I was by the happy moments
which I passed with you. Now I am alone--now I am restored to myself,
and all my wounds are opened afresh." He invoked Corinne with a kind of
despair which could not be attributed to her short absence, but to the
habitual anguish of his heart, which Corinne alone could assuage.
Corinne's maid, hearing the groans of Oswald, entered the room and,
touched with the manner in which he was affected by the absence of her
mistress, said to him, "My lord, let me comfort you; I hope my dear lady
will pardon me for betraying her secret. Come into my room, and you
shall see your portrait." "My portrait!" cried he. "Yes; she has painted
it from memory," replied Theresa (that was the name of Corinne's maid);
"she has risen at five o'clock in the morning this week past, in order
to finish it before she went to the convent."
Oswald saw this portrait, which was a striking likeness and most
elegantly executed: this proof of the impression which he had made on
Corinne penetrated him with the sweetest emotion. Opposite this portrait
was a charming picture, representing the Blessed Virgin--and before this
picture was the oratory of Corinne. This singular mixture of love and
religion is common to the greater part of Italian women, attended with
circumstances more extraordinary than in the apartment of Corinne; for
free and unrestrained as was her life, the remembrance of Oswald was
united in her mind with the purest hopes and purest sentiments; but to
place thus the resemblance of a lover opposite an emblem of divinity,
and to prepare for a retreat to a convent by consecrating a week to
paint that resemblance, was a trait that characterised Italian women in
general rather than Corinne in particular. Their kind of devotion
supposes more imagination and sensibility than seriousness of mind and
seventy of principles;--nothing could be more contrary to Oswald's
religious ideas; yet how could he find fault with Corinne, at the very
moment when he received so affecting a proof of her love?
He minutely surveyed this chamber, which he now entered for the first
time: at the head of Corinne's bed he saw the portrait of an elderly
man, whose physiognomy was not Italian; two bracelets were hanging near
this portrait, one formed of dark and light hair twisted together; the
other was of the most lovely flaxen, and what appeared a most remarkable
effect of chance, perfectly resembled that of Lucilia Edgermond, which
he had observed very attentively three years ago on account of its
extreme beauty. Oswald contemplated these bracelets without uttering a
word, for to interrogate Theresa he felt to be unworthy of him. But
Theresa, fancying she guessed Oswald's thoughts, and wishing to remove
from his mind every jealous suspicion, hastened to inform him that
during eleven years that she had waited on Corinne, her mistress had
always worn these bracelets, and that she knew they were composed of the
hair of her father and mother, and that of her sister. "You have been
eleven years with Corinne," said Lord Nelville; "you know then--"
blushing, he suddenly checked himself, ashamed of the question he was
about to put, and quitted the house immediately, to avoid saying another
word.
In going away, he turned about several times to behold the windows of
Corinne, and when he had lost sight of her habitation, he felt a sadness
now new to him--that which springs from solitude. In the evening, he
sought to dissipate his melancholy by joining a distinguished assembly
in Rome; for to find a charm in reverie, we must in our happy as well as
in our clouded moments, be at peace with ourselves.
The party he visited was soon insupportable to Lord Nelville, inasmuch
as it made him feel more sensibly all the charms that Corinne could
diffuse through society, by observing the void caused by her absence. He
essayed to converse with some ladies, who answered him in that insipid
phraseology which is established to avoid the true expression of our
sentiments and opinions, if those who use it have anything of this sort
to conceal. He approached several groups of gentlemen who seemed by
their voice and gesture to be discoursing upon some important subject;
he heard them discussing the most trivial topic in the most common
manner. He then sat down to contemplate at his ease, that vivacity
without motive and without aim which is found in most numerous
assemblies; nevertheless, mediocrity in Italy is by no means
disagreeable; it has little vanity, little jealousy, and much respect
for superiority of mind; and if it fatigues with its dulness, it hardly
ever offends by its pretensions.
It was in these very assemblies, however, that Oswald had found so much
to interest him a few days before; the slight obstacle which the company
opposed to his conversation with Corinne,--the speedy opportunity which
she took to return to him as soon as she had been sufficiently polite to
the rest of the circle,--the similarity of sentiment which existed
between them in the observations which the company suggested,--the
pleasure which Corinne took when discoursing in Oswald's presence, to
address indirectly to him some reflection of which he alone comprehended
the true meaning, had attached such recollections to every part of this
very room, that Oswald had been deluded so far as to believe that there
was something amusing in these assemblies themselves. "Ah!" said he,
when departing, "it was here as every where else--she was the life of
the scene; let me rather seek the most desert spot till she return. I
shall feel her absence less bitterly when there is nothing about me
bearing the resemblance of pleasure."
Book x.