Castel Forte awaited them at the inn. A report had been circulated
of their marriage: it greatly pained the Prince, yet he came to
assure himself of the fact; to regain, as a friend, the society of
his love, even if she were forever united to another. The state of
dejection in which he beheld her, for the first time, occasioned him
much uneasiness; but he dared not question her, as she seemed to
avoid all conversation on this subject. There are situations in which
we dread to confide in any one; a single word, that we might say or
hear, would suffice to dissipate the illusion that supports our life.
The self-deceptions of impassioned sentiment have the peculiarity of
humoring the heart, as we humor a friend whom we fear to afflict by the
truth; thus, unconsciously, trust we our own griefs to the protection
of our own pity.
Next day, Corinne, who was too natural a person to attempt producing
an effect by her sorrows, strove to appear gay; believing that the
best method of retaining Oswald was to seem as attractive as formerly.
She, therefore, introduced some interesting topic; but suddenly her
abstraction returned, her eyes wandered; the woman who had possessed
the greatest possible faculty of address now hesitated in her choice
of words, and sometimes used expressions that bore not the slightest
reference to what she intended saying: then she would laugh at herself,
though through tears; and Oswald, overwhelmed by the wreck he had made,
would have sought to be alone with her, but she carefully denied him
an opportunity.
"What would you learn from me?" she said one day, when for an instant,
he insisted on speaking with her. "I regret myself--that is all! I
had some pride in my talents. I loved success, glory. The praises,
even of indifferent persons, were objects of my ambition; now I care
for nothing; and it is not happiness that weans me from these vain
pleasures, but a vast discouragement. I accuse not you; it springs from
myself; perhaps I may yet triumph over it. Many things pass in the
depths of the soul that we can neither foresee nor direct; but I do you
justice, Oswald: I see you suffer for me. I sympathize with you, too;
why should not pity bestow her gifts on us? Alas! they might be offered
to all who breathe, without proving very inapplicable."
Oswald, indeed, was not less wretched than Corinne. He loved her
strongly; but her history had wounded his affections, his way of
thinking. He seemed to perceive clearly that his father had prejudged
everything for him; and that he could only wed Corinne in defiance of
such warning; yet how resign her? His uncertainty was more painful
than that which he hoped to terminate by a knowledge of her life. On
her part, she had not wished that the tie of marriage should unite her
to Oswald: so she could have been certain that he would never leave
her, she would have wanted no more to render her content; but she knew
him well enough to understand, that he could conceive no happiness
save in domestic life; and would never abjure the design of marrying
her, unless in ceasing to love. His departure for England appeared
the signal for her death. She was aware how great an influence the
manners and opinions of his country held over his mind. Vainly did he
talk of passing his life with her in Italy; she doubted not that, once
returned to his home, the thought of quitting it again would be odious
to him. She felt that she owed her power to her charms; and what is
that power in absence? What are the memories of imagination to a man
encircled by all the realities of social order, the more imperious
from being founded on pure and noble reason? Tormented by these
reflections, Corinne strove to exert some power over her fondness. She
tried to speak with Castel Forte on literature and the fine arts: but,
if Oswald joined them, the dignity of his mien, the melancholy look
which seemed to ask, "Why will you renounce me?" disconcerted all her
attempts. Twenty times would she have told him, that his irresolution
offended her, and that she was decided to leave him; but she saw him
now lean his head upon his hand, as if bending breathless beneath his
sorrows; now musing beside the sea, or raising his eyes to heaven,
at the sound of music; and these simple changes, whose magic was
known but to herself, suddenly overthrew her determination. A look,
an accent, a certain grace of gesture, reveals to love the nearest
secrets of the soul; and, perhaps, a countenance, so apparently cold
as Nevil's, can never be read, save by those to whom it is dearest.
Impartiality guesses nothing, judges only by what is displayed.
Corinne, in solitude, essayed a test which had succeeded when she had
but believed that she loved. She taxed her spirit of observation (which
was capable of detecting the slightest foibles) to represent Oswald
beneath less seducing colors; but there was nothing about him less than
noble, simple, and affecting. How then defeat the spell of so perfectly
natural a mind? It is only affectation which can at once awaken the
heart, astonished at ever having loved. Besides, there existed between
Oswald and Corinne a singular, all-powerful sympathy. Their tastes
were not the same; their opinions rarely accorded; yet in the centre
of each soul dwelt kindred mysteries, drawn from one source; a secret
likeness, that attests the same nature, however differently modified by
external circumstances. Corinne, therefore, found, to her dismay, that
she had but increased her passion, by thus minutely considering Oswald
anew, even in her very struggle against his image. She invited Castel
Forte to return to Rome with them. Nevil knew she did this to avoid
being alone with him: he felt it sadly, but could not oppose. He was
no longer persuaded that what he might offer Corinne would constitute
her content; and this thought rendered him timid. She, the while, had
hoped that he _would_ refuse the Prince's company. Their situation was
no longer honest as of old; though as yet without actual dissimulation,
restraint already troubled a regard, which for six months had daily
conferred on them a bliss almost unqualified. Returning by Capua and
Gaëta, scenes which she had so lately visited with such delight,
Corinne felt that these beauties vainly called on her to reflect their
smile. When such a sky fails to disperse the clouds of care, its
laughing contrast but augments their gloom.
They arrived at Terracina on a deliciously refreshing eve. Corinne
withdrew after supper. Oswald went forth, and his heart, like hers,
led him towards the spot where they had rested on their way to Naples.
He beheld her kneeling before the rock on which they sat; and, as he
looked on the moon, saw that she was veiled by a cloud, as she had
been two months since at that hour. Corinne, at his approach, rose,
and pointing upwards, said: "Have I not reason to believe in omens? Is
there not some compassion in that heaven? It warned me of the future;
and to-night, you see, it mourns for me. Forget not, Oswald, to remark,
if such a cloud passes not over the moon when I am dying."--"Corinne,"
he cried, "have I deserved that you should kill me? It were easily
done: speak thus again, and you will see _how_ easily--but for what
crime? Your mode of thinking lifts you above the world's opinion:
in your country it is not severe; and if it were, your genius could
surmount it. Whatever happens, I will live near you; whence, then, this
despair? If I cannot be your husband, without offence to the memory of
one who reigns equally with yourself in my breast--do you not love me
well enough to find some solace in the tender devotion of mine every
instant? Have you not still my ring--that sacred pledge?"--"I will
return it, Oswald."--"Never!"--"Ah, yes; when you desire it, the ring
itself will tell me. An old legend says that the diamond, more true
than man, dims when the giver has betrayed our trust."[1]--"Corinne,"
said Oswald, "dare you speak such treason? your mind is lost; it no
longer knows me."--"Pardon! oh, pardon me! in love like mine, the
heart, Oswald, is gifted suddenly with most miraculous instincts; and
its own sufferings become oracles. What portends, then, the heavy
palpitation of _my_ heart? Ah, love, I should not fear it, if it were
but my knell!" She fled, precipitately, dreading to remain longer with
him. She could not dally with her grief, but sought to break from it;
yet it returned but the more violently for her repulse. The next day,
as they crossed the Pontine Marsh, Oswald's care of her was even more
scrupulous than before; she received it with the sweetest thankfulness:
but there was something in her look that said: "Why will you not let me
die?"
[1] An old tradition supports the imaginative prejudice which persuaded
Corinne that the diamond could forewarn its wearer of its giver's
treachery. Frequent allusions are made to this legend by Spanish poets,
in their peculiar manner. In one of Calderon's tragedies, Ferdinand,
Prince of Portugal, prefers death in chains, before the crime of
surrendering to a Moorish king the Christian city which his brother,
King Edward, offers for his ransom. The Moor, enraged at this refusal,
subjects the noble youth to the basest ignominy. Ferdinand, in reproof,
reminds him that mercy and generosity are the truest characteristics of
supreme power. He cites all that is royal in the universe--the lion,
the dolphin, the eagle, amid animals; and seeks even among plants and
stones for traits of natural goodness, which have been attributed to
those who lord it over the rest. Thus he says, the diamond, which
resists the blow of steel, resolves itself to dust, that it may inform
its master if treason threatens him. It is impossible to know whether
this mode of considering all nature as connected with the destiny and
sentiments of man is mathematically correct; but it is ever pleasing
to imagination; and poetry, especially that of Spain, has owed it many
great beauties. Calderon is only known to me by the German translation
of Wihelm Schlegel; but this author, one of his own country's finest
poets, has the art of transporting into his native language, with
the rarest perfection, the poetic graces of Spanish, English, and
Italian--giving a lively idea of the original, be it what it may.
_Note_TR.--Had Oswald's gift been his mother's wedding-ring, that
incident would have been more affecting than so fanciful a fable.