An hour passed in St. Peter's had been wont to compose her; and

Corinne hoped to find the same effect from visiting the churches

of fair Florence. She walked beneath the fine trees of the river's

bank, in a lovely eve of June. Roses embalmed the air, and every face

expressed the general felicity from which she felt herself excluded;

yet she unenvyingly blessed her God for his kind care of man. "I am

an exception to universal order," she said; "there is happiness for

every one but me: this power of suffering, beneath which I die, is

then peculiar to myself. My God! wherefore was I selected for such a

doom? May I not say, like thy Divine Son, 'Father, let this cup be

taken from me?'" The active air of the inhabitants astonished her:

since she had lost all interest in life, she knew not why others seemed

occupied; and, slowly pacing the large stoned pavement of Florence,

she forgot where she had designed to go. At last, she found herself

before the far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghiberti, for the

front of St. John's, which stands beside the cathedral. For some time

she examined this stupendous work; where, wrought in bronze, the

divers nations, though of minute proportions, are distinctly marked by

their varied physiognomies; all of which express some thought of their

artist. "What patience!" cried Corinne; "what respect for posterity!

yet how few scrutinize these doors, through which so many daily pass,

in heedlessness, ignorance, or disdain! How difficult it is to escape

oblivion! how vast the power of death!"

In this cathedral was Julian de Medicis assassinated. Not far thence,

in the church of St. Lorenzo, is shown the marble chapel, enriched

with precious stones, where rise the tombs of that high family, and

Michael Angelo's statues of Julian and Lorenzo: the latter, meditating

vengeance on the murder of his brother, deserves the honor of having

been called "_la pensée de Michel Angelo_!" At the feet of these

figures are Aurora and Night. The awaking of the one is admirable;

still more so is the other's sleep. A poet chose it for his theme,

and concluded by saying: "Sound as is her slumber, she lives: if you

believe not, wake her, she will speak." Angelo, who cultivated letters

(without which imagination of all kinds must soon decay) replied:----

"Grato m'è il sono, e più l'esser di sasso.

Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura,

Non veder, non sentir m'è gran ventura,

Perô non mi destar, deh parla basso!"

"It is well for me to sleep, still better to be stone; while shame and

injustice last: not to see, not to hear, is a great blessing; therefore

disturb me not! speak low!"

This great man was the only comparatively modern sculptor who neither

gave the human figure the beauty of the antique nor the affected air

of our own day. You see the grave energy of the Middle Ages--its

perseverance, its passions, but no ideal beauty. He was the genius

of his own school; and imitated no one, not even the ancients. This

tomb is in the church of Santa Croce. At his desire, it faces a

window whence may be seen the dome built by Filippo Brunelleschi: as

if his ashes would stir, even beneath the marble, at the sight of a

cupola copied from that of St. Peter's. Santa Croce contains some of

the most illustrious dead in Europe. Galileo, persecuted by man, for

having discovered the secrets of the sky--Machiavel, who revealed the

arts of crime rather as an observer than an actor; yet whose lessons

are more available to the oppressors than, the oppressed--Aretino,

who consecrated his days to mirth, and found nothing serious in life

except its end--Boccaccio, whose laughing fancy resisted the united

scourges of civil war and plague--a picture in honor of Dante, showing

that the Florentines, who permitted him to perish in exile, were not

the less vain of his glory,[1] with many other worthy names, and some

celebrated in their own day, but echoing less forcibly from age to

age, so that their sound is now almost unheard.[2] This church, adorned

with noble recollections, rekindled the enthusiasm of Corinne, which

the living had repressed. The silent presence of the great revived,

for a moment, that emulation which once she felt for fame. She stepped

more steadfastly, and the high thoughts of other days arose within her

breast. Some young priests came slowly down the aisle, chanting in

subdued tones: she asked the meaning of this ceremony. "We are praying

for our dead," said one of them. "Right," thought Corinne; "your dead!

well may you boast them; they are the only noble relics left ye. Ah!

why then, Oswald, have you stifled all the gifts Heaven granted me,

with which I ought to excite the sympathy of kindred minds? O God!" she

added, sinking on her knees, "it is not in vanity I dare entreat thee

to give me back my talents: doubtless the lowly saints who lived and

died for thee alone are greatest in thy sight; but there are different

careers for mortals: genius, which illustrates our noblest virtues,

devotes itself to generous humanity and truth, may trust to be received

in some outer heaven." She cast her eyes to earth, and, on the stone

where she had knelt, read this inscription:----

"Alone I rose, alone I sank, I am alone e'en here."

"Ah!" cried Corinne, "that is mine answer. What should embolden me to

toil? what pride can I ever feel? who would participate in my success,

or interest himself in my defeats? Oh, I should need _his_ look for

my reward." Another epitaph fixed her attention, that of a youth, who

says:--

"Pity me not, if you can guess how many pangs the grave hath

spared me."

How did those words wean her from life! amid the tumult of a city,

this church opened to teach mankind the best of secrets, if they would

learn: but no; they passed it by, and the miraculous forgetfulness of

death kept all the world alive.

[1] After the death of Dante, the Florentines, ashamed of having

permitted him to perish far from his home, sent a deputation to the

pope for his remains, interred at Ravenna. The pope refused; rightly

deeming that the land which had sheltered him in exile must have become

his country, and deserved not to be thus robbed of the glory that shone

around his tomb.

[2] Alfieri said, that it was in the church of Santa Croce he first

felt a love for fame. The epitaph he composed for himself and the

Countess d'Albani is most simply and affectingly expressive of long and

perfect friendship.

CHAPTER IV.

The spring of feeling which had consoled Corinne for a few moments, led

her next morning to the Gallery: she hoped to recover her taste, and

draw some pleasure from her former pursuits. Even the fine arts are

republican in Florence. Pictures and statues are shown at all hours,

with the greatest ease. Well-informed men, paid by the government,

like public functionaries, explain all these _chefs-d'œuvre_. This

lingering respect for talent has ever pervaded Italy; particularly

Florence, where the Medicii extorted pardon for their power over human

actions, by the free scope they left for human minds. The common

people love the arts, and blend this taste with their devotion, which

is more regular in Tuscany than in any other Italian state; but they

frequently confound mythologic figures with Scripture history. One of

the guides used to show a Minerva as Judith, and an Apollo as David;

adding, when he explained a _bas-relief_, which represented the fall of

Troy, that "Cassandra was a good Christian." Many days may be passed

in the gallery ere half its beauties are known. Corinne went from one

to the other, mortified at her own indifference and abstraction. The

calm dignity which shines through the deep grief of Niobe, however,

recalled her attention. In such a case, the countenance of a living

mother would doubtless be more agitated; but the ideal arts preserve

beauty even in despair; and what affects us most in works of genius, is

not grief's self, but the soul's power o'er grief. Not far from this

is a head of the dying Alexander. These two countenances afford rich

material for thought. The conqueror looks astonished and indignant at

not having achieved a victory even over nature. The anguish of maternal

love is depicted on all the traits of Niobe: she presses her daughter

to her heart with the most touching eagerness; her fine face bearing

the stamp of that fatality which left the ancients no resource, even

in religion. Niobe lifts her eyes to heaven, but without hope; for the

gods themselves are her enemies.

On her return home, Corinne strove to reflect on what she had seen,

and retrace her impressions, as she had formerly done; but her mental

distraction was uncontrollable. How far was she now from the power

of improvisation! In vain she sought for words, or wrote unmeaning

ones, that dismayed her on perusal, as would the ravings of delirium.

Incapable of turning her thoughts from her own situation, she then

strove to describe it; but no longer could she command those universal

sentiments that find echoes in all hearts. Hers were now but long

unvaried wailings, like the cry of the night bird; her expressions were

too impetuous, too unveiled--they were those of misery, not of talent.

To write well, we require to feel truly, but not heart-breakingly.

The best melancholy poetry is that inspired by a kind of rapture,

which still tells of mental strength and enjoyment. Real grief is a

foe to intellectual fertility: it produces a gloomy agitation, that

incessantly returns to the same point, like the knight who, pursued by

an evil genius, sought a thousand roads for escape, yet always found

himself at the spot from whence he started.

The state of Corinne's health completed the confusion of her mind.

The following are a few of the reflections she wrote, while making a

fruitless effort to become capable of a connected work.

CHAPTER V.

FRAGMENTS OF CORINNE'S THOUGHTS.

My genius lives no longer: I regret

Its death: I own I should have loved that yet

My lays had waked _his_ sympathy; my name

Might still have reach'd him, heralded by fame.

I err'd by hoping that in his own land

The thoughts, the feelings--that our fate united--

The influence of habit could withstand--

Amid such scenes love's flower must soon be blighted.

There is so much to say 'gainst maid like me!

How futile must the only answer be!

"Such was her heart--her mind;" a poor reply

For hosts who know not what I was, nor why.

Yet are they wrong to fear superior mind,

The more it towers, more _morally_ refined:

The more we know, the better we forgive;

Whoe'er feels deeply, feels for all who live.

How can two beings who confided all,

Whose converse was the spirit's griefs, its dangers,

And immortality, bear this swift fall,

Thus to each other become once more strangers?

What a mysterious sentiment is love!

Nothing, if not all other ties above--

Vying in faith with all that martyrs feel--

Or--colder than the simplest friendship's zeal.

This most involuntary sense on earth,

Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth?

What storms it raises deep within the breast!

Must we obey, or combat such wild guest?

Talent should be a refuge; as when one[1]

Imprison'd to a cloister, art's true son,

Bequeath'd its walls such traces of his doom,

That genius glorified monastic gloom!

But he, though captive, suffer'd from without;

His bosom was not torn by dread or doubt;

When grief is there, all efforts lose their force,

The spring of comfort's poison'd from its source.

Sometimes I view myself as one apart,

Impartially, and pity my own heart;

Was I not mental, kind to others' pain,

Generous, and frank? Then why all this in vain?

Is the world really so vile, that charms

Like these but rob us of our needful arms?

'Tis pitiful! Spite all my youth hath shown,

Despite my glory, I shall die unknown;

Nor leave one proof of what I might have been.

Had I learnt happiness, or could defy

This all-devouring fever--men had seen

Me contemplate them from a station high.

Tracking the hidden links between yon heaven

And human nature; but the clue is riven.

How, how think freely, while each painful breath

But bids me feel the woe that weighs me down to death?

Oh! why would he forbear to render blest

A heart whose secret he alone possess'd?

To him--him only spoke my inmost soul!

'Tis easy to leave those chance may control,

The common herd--but she who must admire,

Yet judge ere fancy kindles love's chaste fire,

Expansive as it is, to soul like hers,

There's but one object in the universe!

I learnt life from the poets; 'tis not thus;

Vainly they strive to change the truth, for us

Who live to wake from their soft dreams, and see

The barrenness of life's reality!

Remembering what I was but chafes my pride.

Why tell me I could charm, if not for love?

Why inspire confidence, to make me prove

But the more fearful anguish when it died?

Will he, in any other, meet more mind

Than was my own? a heart more true and kind?

No! but--congenial with heartlessness--

He will be _more_ content in finding _less_.

In presence of the sun, or starry spheres,

To deserve love we need but to desire--

For love ennobles all that it endears;

Conscious of mutual worth, we look no higher.

But ah, society! where each must owe

His fate but to factitious joy or woe--

Where what is said of him becomes the test--

How soon it hardens e'en the trifler's breast.

Could men once meet, free from this false control,

How pure an air were breathed into the soul!

How would the mind, refresh'd by feelings true,

Teem with ideas natural and new!

E'en Nature's cruel; this praised face

Is fading: what avails it now

That still I pour affection's vow,

Without one look my prayer to grace?

These tear-dimm'd eyes no more express,

As once they might, my tenderness.

Within my bosom is a pain

No language ever can explain--

I have no strength for task like this;

Love, only love, could sound the abyss.

How happy men! in honor's strife

They burst the chains of hated life.

_We_ hope no solace from the throng;

Our torture is to bear,

Stirless and mute, a lone life long,

The presence of Despair.

Sometimes, when listing music's tone,

It tells of powers so late mine own,

Song, dance, and poesie--I start,

As I could fly from this sad heart,

To joy again; a sudden chill

Reminds me that the world would say,

"Back, lingering ghost! it fits thee ill

To brave the living, and the day!"

I wish I now could find a spell

'Gainst misery in the crowd: 'twas well

To mix there once, lest solitude

Should bear my thoughts too far through fate,

My mind grew flexible, imbued

With gay impressions; 'tis too late;

Features and feelings fix for aye:

Smiles, fancies, graces! where are they?

Ah! if't were in a moment o'er,

Fain would I taste of hope once more!

But all is done: life can but be

A burning desert now to me;

The drop of water, like the river,

Sullied with bitterness forever,

A single day's enjoyment is

Impossible, as years of bliss.

Guilty towards me as I must deem

My love--compared with other men

What mindless things of art they seem!

How does he rise an angel then!--

E'en though his sword of flame consume

My life, and devastate my doom;

Heaven lends the one beloved his power

Thus to avenge each misspent hour.

'Tis not first love that must endure;

It springs but from the dreams of youth;

But if, with intellect mature,

We meet the mind long sought in vain,

Fancy is then subdued by truth,

And we have _reason_ to complain.

"What maniacs!" the many cry,

"Are those for love who live or die!

As if, when such frail boon is reft,

A thousand blessings were not left!"

Enthusiasm, though the seed

Of every high heroic deed,

Each pious sacrifice--its lot

Is scorn, from those who feel it not.

All then is folly, if they will,

Save their own selfish care

Of mortal life; this nobler thrill

Is madness everywhere.

Alas! it is my worst distress

That _he_ alone my thoughts could guess;

Too late and vainly may he find

That I alone could read _his_ mind.

Mine own should thus be understood;

In friendship's varying degrees

Easy, yet difficult to please:

With cordial hours for all the good,

But with affection deep and true,

Which but for _one_, for _him_ I knew.

Feeling and fancy, wit and reason,

Where now such union can I find,

Seek the world through--save his--whose treason

'Gainst love hath slain me? Oswald's mind

Blends all these charms; unless I dream'd

He was the wonder he but seem'd.

How, then, to others should I speak?

In whom confide? what subjects seek?

What end, aim, interest remains?

The sweetest joys, the bitterest pains,

Already known, what should I fear?

Or what expect? before me cast

A future changeless, wan, and drear,

As but the spectre of my past!

Why, why is happiness so brief?

Life's weeds so strong, its flowers so frail?

Is nature's natural order grief?

Unwonted pain soon finds relief

When its strange throes our frames assail--

Joy to the soul's less usual: there

The habitual state is this despair.

How mutable the world appears

Where nothing lasts, but pain and tears![2]

Another life! another life

That is my hope! but still such force

Hath this we bear, that we demand

In heaven the same rebellious band

Of passions that _here_ caused our strife.

The northern zealots paint the shade

Still hunting, with his hound and horse,

The phantom stag, through cloudy glade;

Yet dare we call such shapes unreal?

Naught here is sure save that Distress--

Whose power all suffer who can feel--

Keeps _her_ unpitying promises!

I dream of immortality!

No more of that which man can give;

Once in the future did I live,

The present seem'd too old for me.[3]

All I now ask of Him on high,

Is, that my heart may never die!

Father! the offering and the shrine

A mortal spurns; with grace divine,

Deign to receive--'tis thine!--'tis thine!

I know my days will be but few;

That thought restores a sense of rest:

'Tis sweet to feel, as now I do,

Death draw Grief's barb from out my breast.

'Tis Superstition's sad retreat,

More than the home of pious trust;

Devotion to the blest is sweet.--

What gratitude to the All Just

Ought Oswald's wife to feel! O God, she must.

And yet misfortune oft improves,

Corrects us, teaches us to weigh

Our errors with our sufferings: they

Are wedded: we repent the loves

Of earth, when salutary time

And solitude inspires love more sublime.

'Tis this I need, ere yet I can fulfil

A tranquil voyage to life more tranquil still:--

What innocence is in the thoughts of those

About to leave this life of passion's woes!

The secret which not genius' self can share,

The enigma, may it be reveal'd to prayer?

May not some simple thought, by reverie

Full oft approach'd, disclose the mystery?

Vast as the efforts which the soul may make

They weary her in vain; she cannot take

This latest step; life must be still unknown

Till its last hour on earth be well-nigh flown I

'Tis time mine should repose; and who will sigh--

'Tis still, at last, the heart that beat so high!

[1] Domenichino.

[2] "Ahi! null' altro che pianto al mondo dura."--PETRARCH.

[3] That idea is Dante's.

CHAPTER VI.

Prince Castel Forte quitted Rome, to settle near Corinne. She felt

most grateful for this proof of friendship, and yet ashamed that

she could not requite it, even by such conversation as of yore: now

she was silent and abstracted; her failing health robbed her of

all the strength required, even for a momentary triumph over her

absorbing griefs. That interest, which the heart's courtesy inspires,

she could still at times evince; but her desire to please was lost

forever. Unhappy love freezes all our affections: our own souls grow

inexplicable to us. More than we gained while we were happy, we lose

by the reverse. That added life which made us enjoy nature, lent an

enchantment to our intercourse with society; but the heart's vast hope

once lost, existence is impoverished, and all spontaneous impulses

are paralyzed. Therefore, a thousand duties command women, and men

still more, to respect and fear the passion they awaken, since it may

devastate the mind as well as the heart.

Sometimes Castel Forte might speak for several minutes to Corinne

without a reply, because she neither understood nor even heard him.

When she did, her answers had none of that glowing animation once so

remarkable; they merely dragged on the dialogue for a few seconds,

and then she relapsed into silence. Sometimes, as she had done at

Naples, she would smile in pity over her own failures. The amiable

prince humored her on all her favorite topics. She would thank him, by

pressing his hand, and once, after a walk on the banks of the Arno,

began to jest with her accustomed grace: he gazed, and listened in glad

surprise; but she abruptly broke off, and rushed from the room in

tears. On returning, she said, gently: "Pardon me, my generous friend;

I would fain make myself agreeable; it will not be: bear with me as

I am." What most distressed him, was the shock her constitution had

received: no immediate danger threatened her, yet it was impossible

that she could live long, unless she regained some vigor. If she

endeavored to speak on aught that concerned the soul, her wan tremor

was painful to behold; and he strove to divert her from this strain. He

ventured to talk of Oswald, and found that she took a perverse pleasure

in the subject; but it left her so shaken, that he was obliged to

interdict it. Castel Forte was a susceptible being: but not even the

most magnanimous of men knows how to console the woman he has loved

under the pangs thus inflicted by another. Some little self-love on his

side, must aid her timidity, in preventing perfect confidence. Besides,

what would it avail? It can only be of service to those wounds which

would cure themselves without it.

At this time the prince received a letter from Lord Nevil, replete with

professions, which would have deeply affected Corinne: he mused for

hours together on the propriety of showing it to her; but anticipating

the violence of its effects on a creature so feeble, he forbore. Even

while he was thus deliberating, another letter reached him, announcing

his Lordship's departure for America. Castel Forte then decided on

saying nothing to Corinne. Perhaps he erred: one of her greatest griefs

was Nevil's silence; she scarce dared own it to herself: but though

forever separated from him, one recollection, one regret, would have

been very precious to her: as it was, he gave her, she thought, no

opportunity of hearing his name, left her no excuse for breathing it.

The sorrow, of which no one speaks to us, which gains no change from

time, cuts deeper than reiterated blows; the good prince followed the

usual maxim, which bids us do our utmost towards teaching a mourner to

forget; but there is no oblivion for the imaginative: it were better

to keep alive their memories, weary them of their tears, exhaust their

sighs, and force them back upon themselves, that they may reconcentrate

their own powers.

BOOK XIX.

OSWALD'S RETURN TO ITALY.

CHAPTER I.

Let us now return to the events which occurred in Scotland, after

the sad fête at which Corinne made her self-sacrifice. Lord Nevil's

servant carried his letters to the ball-room. Oswald retired to

read them. He opened several which his agent had sent from London,

little guessing that among them was one which would decide his fate;

but when he beheld the writing of Corinne, and saw the ring, the

words--"You are free!"--he felt at once the most cruel grief and the

most furious irritation. He had not heard from her for two months, and

now her silence was broken by this laconic decision. He remembered

what Lady Edgarmond had said of her instability, and entered into all

the step-dame's feeling against her; for he still loved enough to be

unjust; forgetting how long he had renounced the idea of marrying her,

how much Lucy had pleased him, he looked on himself as the blameless

victim of an inconstant woman; perplexity and despair beset him; but

over them both towered his proud soul, prompting him to rise superior

to his wronger. This boasted pride rarely exists unless self-love

predominates over affection. Had Nevil now valued Corinne as in their

days at Rome and Naples, not all his "wrongs supposed" could have torn

her from his heart.

Lady Edgarmond detected his distress. The fatal malady beneath which

she labored increased her ardent interest in her daughter. She knew the

poor child's heart, and feared that she had compromised her happiness

forever; therefore, she seldom lost sight of Nevil, but read his

secrets with that discernment which is deemed peculiar to our sex, but

which belongs solely to the continual observance which a real interest

teaches us. On the pretext of transferring Corinne's inheritance,

she besought Lord Nevil's company next morning, and shortly guessed

that he was much dissatisfied; she flattered his resentment by the

prospect of a noble vengeance, offering to recognize her husband's

daughter. This sudden change amazed him; yet though its condition

was unexplained, he comprehended it; and, in one of those moments in

which we act more quickly than we can think, demanded Lucy's hand. Her

mother, scarcely able to restrain her joy, so as not to say _yes_ too

hastily, consented; and he left her presence, bound by an engagement,

which, when he made it, he had not dreamed of undertaking. While

Lady Edgarmond prepared Lucy to receive him, he paced the garden in

violent agitation, telling himself that she had merely pleased him,

because he knew little of her, and that it was madness to found the

happiness of his life on the charm of a mystery that must inevitably

be dissipated. He then retraced his letters to Corinne, too plainly

showing his internal struggles. "She's right!" he sighed: "I have not

the courage fit to make her blest; but yet it should have cost her

more to lose me--that cold brief line--yet who knows but her tears

might have fallen on it!" His own burst forth in spite of him. These

reveries hurried him on unconsciously so far, that he was long sought

in vain by the servant, sent to tell him that Lady Edgarmond desired

his return. Astonished at his own lack of eagerness, he obeyed. On

re-entering the drawing-room, he found Lucy kneeling, her head reclined

on the bosom of her parent, with a most touching grace. As she heard

his footsteps, she raised her flowing eyes, and, extending her hand to

him, said simply: "My Lord, I know you will not separate me from my

mother." This innocent manner of announcing her consent much interested

Oswald, who, sinking on his knees, besought Lady Edgarmond's permission

to imprint on that blushing forehead the first kiss which had ever

awakened more than childlike emotions in the breast whose beauty less

enchanted him than did its celestial modesty. The days which preceded

that chosen for their marriage were spent in the needful arrangements.

Lucy spoke more than usual; but all she said was so nobly natural,

that Oswald loved and approved her every word, and yet he felt a

void beside her. Their conversation consisted but of questions and

answers; she neither started nor prolonged any subject: all went well:

but without that exhaustless animation with which it is so difficult

for those who have once enjoyed it to dispense. Lord Nevil thought of

Corinne; but, as he no longer heard her named, hoped that her image

would at last become merely an object of his vague regret. When Lucy

learned from her mother that her sister still lived in Italy, she much

wished to talk of her with Oswald, but Lady Edgarmond forbade; and the

girl, habitually submissive, asked not the reason of this prohibition.

On the morning of his marriage, the hapless Corinne haunted Nevil

fearfully; but be addressed his father's spirit, confessing that it

was to win _his_ heavenly benediction, his son accomplished thus his

will on earth. Reassured by those meditations, he sought his bride,

reproaching himself for having allowed his thoughts to wander from her.

A descending angel could not have chosen a face more fit than hers to

give mortality a dream of heavenly virtue. At the altar, Lady Edgarmond

was even more agitated than her daughter; for all-important steps alarm

us the more, the greater our experience. Lucy was all hope; childhood

still mingled with her youth, and blended joy with love. In leaving the

church she leaned timidly on Oswald's arm, as if to assure herself of

his protection: he looked on her tenderly, feeling, at the bottom of

his heart, a foe who menaced her repose, and from whom he had promised

to defend her. Lady Edgarmond, on their return, said to her son-in-law:

"My mind is easy. I have confided to you the happiness of my daughter;

and have so short a time to live, that it is a comfort for me to think

my place will be so well supplied." Lord Nevil was much affected by

these words, and anxiously mused on the duties they imposed. A few days

elapsed: Lucy had begun to meet her husband's eye with confidence, and

make her mind known to him, when unlucky incidents disturbed the union

commenced under these favorable auspices.

CHAPTER II.

Mr. Dickson paid his respects to the young couple, apologizing for not

having been present at their marriage. He had been ill, he said, from

the effects of a fall, though kindly assisted by the most charming

woman in the world. Oswald, at this moment, was playing battledore

and shuttlecock with Lucy, who was very graceful at this exercise.

Her bridegroom gazed on her, and listened not to Mr. Dickson, who,

at last, called to him from the other end of the room. "My Lord, the

fair unknown, who came to my aid, had certainly heard much about you,

for she asked me many questions concerning your fate."--"Whom do you

mean?" said Nevil, continuing his game.--"A lovely creature, my Lord,

although she looked changed by suffering, and could not speak of you

without emotion."[1] These words attracted Oswald's attention; but

Lucy, perfectly unconcerned, joined her mother, who had just sent

for her. Lord Nevil now asked Mr. Dickson what lady it was who had

thus spoken of him. "I know not," he replied: "her accent proved her

English, though I have rarely found so obliging and easy a person

among our countrywomen. She took as much care of a poor old man like

me as if she had been my own child: while I was beside her, I did

not feel my bruises; but, my dear Oswald, have you been faithless

here as well as in Italy? My beauteous benefactress trembled and

turned pale at naming you."--"Just heaven!" exclaimed Nevil, "you

said an Englishwoman?"--"Oh yes: you know foreigners never pronounce

our language without a certain intonation."--"And her face?"--"The

most expressive I ever saw, though fearfully pale and thin." This

description suited not the bright Corinne; yet might she not have

suffered much, if in England, and unable to find the being she sought?

This dread fell suddenly on Oswald, who continued his questions with

extreme uneasiness. Mr. Dickson replied that the lady conversed with

an elegance which he had never before met, that the gentlest kindness

spoke from her sad and languid eyes. "Did you notice their color?"

asked Oswald.--"Magnificently dark!" The catechist trembled. "From time

to time," continued Mr. Dickson, "she interrogated, or answered, me,

and what she _did_ say was delightful." He would have proceeded, but

Lady Nevil, with her mother, rejoined them; and Oswald hastily retired,

hoping soon again to find Mr. Dickson alone. Struck by his sadness,

Lady Edgarmond sent Lucy away, that she might inquire its cause: her

guest simply repeated what had passed. Terrified at anticipating the

despair of Oswald, if he were assured that Corinne had followed him

to Scotland; foreseeing, too, that he would resume this topic, she

instructed Mr. Dickson as to what she wished said to her son-in-law.

Thus, the old gentleman only increased the anxiety it was too late

to remove. Oswald now asked his servant if all the letters sent him

within the last three weeks had come by post.[2] The man "believed

they had," and was leaving the room; but, turning back, added, "I

remember that, on the ball night, a blind man gave me one for your

Lordship. I supposed it a petition for charity."--"I received none

such: could you find this man?"--"Yes, my Lord, directly; he lives in

the village."--"Go, bring him to me!" said Nevil; and, unable to wait

patiently, walked out to meet him at the end of the avenue. "So, my

friend," he said, "you brought a letter here for me, on the evening of

the ball: who gave it to you?"--"My Lord, ye see I'm blind, how wad I

ken?"--"Do you think it was a female?"--"Ech fine that, my Lord! for I

hard weel eneuch that she was vera soft voiced, though I jaloused the

while that she was greeting."--"And what did she say to you?"--"Oh,

sir, she said, 'Gude auld man, gide this to Oswald's servant,' and

there stopped, but syne she added, 'I mean Lord Nevil's.'"--"Ah,

Corinne!" exclaimed Oswald, and grew so faint that he was forced to

support himself on the poor creature's arm, who continued; "I was

sitting under a tree just, and wished to do the leddy's bidding diract,

but could scarce raise mysel, being auld the noo: weel, after giein

me mair siller than I'd had for lang, she was that free she lent me

her hand, puir thing! it trembled just as your Lordship's does this

minute."--"Enough!" sighed Nevil. "Here, my good friend, as she gave

you money, let me do so too; go, and pray for us both!" He withdrew.

From this moment a terrible agitation preyed on his mind: he made a

thousand useless inquiries, unable to conceive the possibility of

Corinne's having been in Scotland without seeking him. He formed

various conjectures as to her motives; and, in spite of all his

endeavors to conceal it, this affliction was evident to Lady Edgarmond,

nay, even to Lucy. All was constraint and silence. At this time Oswald

wrote first to Castel Forte. Had Corinne read that letter, it would

much have softened her resentment.

Count d'Erfeuil joined the Nevils ere the Prince's reply arrived. He

said no more of Corinne than was necessary, yet felt vexed at their

not perceiving that he _had_ an important secret in his power, though

too discreet to betray it. His insinuations at first took no effect

upon Oswald; but, when he detected that they referred to Corinne, he

was all curiosity. The Count having brought him to this, defended his

own trust pretty bravely; at last, however, his friend drew forth the

whole truth. It was a pleasure for d'Erfeuil to relate how grateful

Corinne had felt, and in what a wretched state he had found her; he

ran on, without observing how he agonized Lord Nevil; his only object

was that of being the hero of his own story; when he had ceased, he

was much afflicted at the mischief he had done. Oswald had commanded

himself till then, but suddenly became distracted with regret; accused

himself as the most barbarous and ungrateful of men; raved of Corinne's

devoted tenderness: her generosity at the very moment when she believed

him most culpable. He contrasted this with the heartless fickleness

by which he had requited her; incessantly repeating that no one ever

loved him as she did; and that he should in some way be ultimately

punished for his cruelty. He would have set forth to see her, if only

for a day, an hour; but Rome and Florence were already occupied by the

French: his regiment was about to embark; he could not forfeit his own

honor, nor break the heart of his wife: indeed, no faults he might now

commit could repair the past; they would but add to the misery he _had_

occasioned. The only hope that calmed him was derived from the dangers

he was about to brave. In this mood he wrote again to Castel Forte,

whose replies represented Corinne as sad, but resigned; his pride in

her softened rather than exaggerated the truth. Oswald believed that

he ought not to torture her by his regrets, after having so wronged

her by his love--and left Britain with a sense of remorse which nearly

rendered life insupportable.

[1] Even had not Mr. Dickson been aware of Oswald's circumstances,

such a speech before his bride would have been bad enough. It is

unpardonable, as he knew so much.--TR.

[2] I wonder he had not observed that Corinne's bore no post-mark.--TR.

CHAPTER III.

Lucy was afflicted by his departure; yet his recent gloom had so

increased her natural timidity, that she had never found courage to

confide in him her hopes of becoming a mother; but left it for Lady

Edgarmond to send these tidings after him. Nevil, unable to guess what

passed in his wife's heart, had thought her farewell cold; compared

her silent submission with the eloquence of Corinne, and hesitated not

to believe that Lucy loved him but feebly; yet, during his absence,

scarcely could even the birth of their daughter divert her mind from

his perils. Another grief was added to all this. D'Erfeuil spent a

year in Scotland, strongly persuaded that he had not revealed the

secret of Corinne's sojourn there; but he said so much that implied

it, and found such difficulty, when conversation flagged, in avoiding

the theme most interesting to Lady Nevil, that she at last learned

the whole truth. Innocent as she was, it required even less art than

she possessed to draw d'Erfeuil out upon a favorite subject. Lady

Edgarmond was too ill to be present at these conversations; but when

she questioned her daughter on the melancholy she detected, Lucy told

all. Her mother spoke very severely on Corinne's pursuit of Oswald.

Lucy was alternately jealous of her sister, and indignant against her

husband, for deserting one to whom he had been so dear. She could not

help trembling for her own peace, with a man who had thus wrecked that

of another. She had ever cherished a grateful recollection of her

early instructress, which now blended with sympathy: far from feeling

flattered by Oswald's sacrifice, she was tormented by the idea that

he had chosen her merely because her position in the world was more

advantageous than that of Corinne. She remembered his hesitation before

marriage, his sadness so soon after, and everything confirmed the cruel

belief that her husband loved her not. Lady Edgarmond might have been

of great service to her daughter, had she striven to calm her; but she

too intolerantly anathematized all sentiments that deviated from the

line of duty; nor dreamed of tenderly leading a wanderer back, thinking

that the only way to awake conscience was by just resentment. She was

mortified that so lovely a woman should be so ill appreciated; and

aggravated Lucy's fears, in order to excite her pride. Lady Nevil, more

gentle and enlightened than her mother, could not rigorously follow

such advice; yet her letters to Oswald were always far colder than

her heart. Meanwhile he was distinguishing himself nobly, exposing

his life, not merely in honorable enthusiasm, but in a positive love

of peril. He appeared most gay when most actively employed, and would

blush with pleasure when the tumult of battle commenced. At such

moments a weight seemed lifted from his heart, and he could breathe

with ease. The popularity he enjoyed among his fellow-soldiers animated

the existence it could not render happy, and almost blinded him

both to the past and the future. He grew accustomed to the lukewarm

correspondence of his wife, whom he did not suppose offended with him.

When he remembered her, it was as a being worthy of his protection,

and whose mind he ought to spare from all deeply serious thoughts.

But in those splendid tropic nights, that give so grand an idea of

nature and its Author, the image of Corinne was often with him; yet,

as both war and climate menaced his life each hour, he excused his

lingering memory. At the approach of eternity, we forgive and hope to

be forgiven. He thought but of the tears his death would cause her,

not upon those his errors had extorted. It was natural he should think

most of her; they had so often talked of immortality, and sounded every

depth of solemn feeling: he fancied that he still conversed with her,

while occupied by the great thoughts the spectacles of war invariably

suggest. It was to Corinne he spoke in solitude, although he knew that

she must sadly blame him. Despite absence, distance, time, and every

change, they seemed to understand each other still.

At last his regiment was ordered home. The monotony of shipboard

pleased him less than had the stir of arms. External excitement

supplied some of the imaginative joys he owed to his intercourse with

Corinne. He had not yet attempted to live calmly without her. The

proofs of devotion his soldiers gave him somewhat beguiled the voyage;

but even that interest failed on their landing in England.

CHAPTER IV.

Nevil had now to renew his acquaintance with his own family, after

four years' separation. He arrived at Lady Edgarmond's castle in

Northumberland. Lucy presented her child with as much diffidence as if

she had deemed herself guilty. Her imagination had been so occupied by

her sister, during the period of her maternal expectations, that little

Juliet displayed the dark eyes and hair of Corinne. Her father, in wild

agitation, pressed her to his heart; and from that instant, Lucy could

not take unqualified delight in his affection for his daughter. The

young wife was now nearly twenty. Her beauty had attained a dignity

which inspired Nevil with respect. Lady Edgarmond was too infirm to

leave her bed; yet, though this tried her temper, she received her

son-in-law with satisfaction; having feared that she should die in

his absence, and leave her daughter alone upon the world. Oswald,

so long accustomed to a military career, found it very difficult to

remain nearly all day in the chamber of an invalid, who received no

one but himself and wife. Lucy dearly loved her lord; but, believing

her affection unprized, concealed what she knew of his passion for

Corinne, and became more silent than ever. Mild as she was, her mother

had so influenced her, that when Oswald hinted at the added charm she

would gain by a little animation, she received this but as a proof

that he still preferred her sister, and was too hurt to profit by it:

he could not speak of the fine arts without occasioning her a sadness

that repressed his enthusiasm. Had she been better taught, she would

have treasured up his lightest word, that she might study how to please

him. Lady Edgarmond evinced a growing distaste for all deviations from

her habitual routine: her irritated nerves shrunk from every sound.

She would have reduced life to a state of stagnation, as if the less

to regret its loss: but, as few like to confess their personal motives

for certain opinions, she supported hers on the general principles of

exaggerated morality; and disenchanted life, by making sins of its

least amusements--by opposing some duty to every employment which would

have made to-day differ from yesterday or to-morrow. Lucy, duteous as

she was, had so much flexibility of mind that she would have joined her

husband in gently reasoning with this exacting austerity, had she not

been persuaded that it was adopted merely to discountenance Oswald's

Italian predilections. "You must struggle most perseveringly," would

her mother say, "against any return of that dangerous infatuation."

Lord Nevil had a great reverence for duty; but he understood it in a

wider sense than that of Lady Edgarmond: tracing it to its source, he

found that it might perfectly accord with natural inclination, instead

of requiring perpetual combats and sacrifices. Virtue, he thought,

far from rendering life a torture, contributes to the duration of its

happiness, and may be considered as a sort of prescience granted "to

man alone beneath the heaven." Sometimes, in explaining these ideas,

he yielded to the pleasure of quoting Corinne; but such language

always offended his mother-in-law. New doctrines ever displease the

old. They like to fancy that the world has been losing wisdom, instead

of gaining it, since they were young. Lucy's heart instinctively

detected the echoes of her sister's voice in the sentiments Oswald

breathed with so much ardor. She would cast down her eyes to hide this

consciousness; her husband, utterly unaware of it, attributed her

apparent insensibility to want of comprehension; and not knowing where

to seek congeniality sank into despondence. He wrote to Castel Forte

for news of Corinne; but the war prevented the letter's arrival. His

health suffered from the cold of England; and the physicians assured

him that his chest would be again attacked, if he did not pass the

winter in Italy. He told this to his wife and mother, adding, that

the war between France and England must at present prevent his tour.

"And when peace is concluded," said Lady Edgarmond, "I should hope,

my Lord, that you would not think of returning to Italy."--"If his

health depends on it," ventured Lucy, "he could not do better." Oswald

expressed much gratitude for her kindness. Alas! his thanks but assured

her of his love for another.

War ceased; and every time Oswald complained, Lucy's heart was divided

between her dread of his departure for Italy, and her fondness, which

overrated his indisposition. He attributed her doubt of the necessity

for this voyage to selfishness: thus each wounded the other's feelings,

because neither dared confess their own. All these interests were soon

absorbed in the state of Lady Edgarmond, who was now speechless, and

could only express herself by tears, or by the manner in which she

pressed their hands. Lucy was in despair. Oswald sat up every night

with her. It was now December; and these cares were highly injurious

to him, though they seemed much to gratify the sufferer, whose

faults disappeared just as her agonies would have excused them. The

approach of death stills all the tumults of soul from which most of

our errors proceed. On her last night, she joined the hands of Oswald

and Lucy, pressed them to her heart, and raised her eyes to heaven;

no longer deploring the voice which could have added nothing to the

impressiveness of that action--that look. In a few seconds she expired.

Lord Nevil, who had supported himself by great effort, for her

sake, now became dangerously ill, and poor Lucy's distress was thus

redoubled. In his delirium, he often named Corinne, and Italy, sighing:

"Oh, for the southern sun! it is so cold in the north here: I shall

never be warm again." When he recovered his senses, he was surprised at

finding that Lucy had prepared everything for his voyage: she merely

repeated the advice of his physicians, adding: "If you will permit

it, I shall accompany you; and our child ought not to be parted from

her parents."--"No, no, we will not part," he answered; "but if this

journey would pain you, I renounce it."--"_That_ will not pain me," she

replied. Oswald took her hand, and gazed inquiringly on her: she would

have explained herself; but the memory of her mother's advice, never

to betray a sign of jealousy, reproved her, and she added: "You must

be sure, my Lord, that my first object is the re-establishment of your

health."--"You have a sister in Italy," continued he.--"I know it: have

you any tidings of her?"--"Never, since I left for America."--"Well,

my Lord, we shall learn all in Italy."--"Are you then interested in

her still?"--"Yes: I have not forgotten the tenderness she showed my

childhood."--"We ought not to forget," sighed Nevil; and both again

were silent. Oswald had too much delicacy to desire a renewal of his

former ties with Corinne; but he thought that it would be sweet to

die in Italy, after receiving her pardon and adieu. He little deemed

that his delirium had betrayed him, and did injustice to the mind of

his wife; because it had rather shown him the opinion of others than

what she felt herself, he believed she loved him as much as she could

love, but he knew nothing of her sensibility; at present, her pride

disguised it; but, had she been perfectly happy, she would have thought

it improper to avow a passionate affection even for her own husband;

capable as she was of it, education had convinced her that it would be

immodest to profess this feeling; but nothing could teach her to take

pleasure in speaking of anything else.

CHAPTER V.

Oswald, disliking all recollections of France, crossed it very hastily.

Lucy evinced neither wish nor will of any kind, but left it for him

to decide everything. They reached the base of the mountains that

separate Dauphiny from Savoy, and ascended the Pas des Echelles on

foot: this road is dug in the rocks; its entrance resembles a deep

cavern; it is dark throughout, even in the brightest days of summer.

As yet, they found no snow; but autumn, the season of decay, was

herself fast fading. The road was covered with dead leaves, borne to

this region on the gale, from the distant trees. Thus they saw the

wreck of nature without beholding any promise of her revival. The

sight of the mountains charmed Lord Nevil: while we live among plains,

the earth seems only made to bear and nourish man; but in picturesque

countries we see the impress of their Creator's power and genius; yet

man is everywhere familiarized with nature: the roads he frames ascend

the steep, or fathom the abyss; nothing is inaccessible to him, save

the great mystery of his own being. In Morienne, the winter was more

rigorously felt at every step: one might fancy one's self wending

northward, in approaching Mont Cenis. Lucy, who had never travelled

before, was alarmed at finding the ice render the horses' pace

unsteady: she hid her fears, but reproached herself for having brought

her little one with her: often doubting whether the resolve to do so

had been purely moral, or whether the hope of growing dearer to Oswald,

by constantly associating her image with that of their beloved child,

had not deadened her to the risks Juliet would thus incur. Lucy was

apt to perplex her mind with secret scruples of conscience; the more

virtuous we are, the more this kind of fastidiousness increases: she

had no resource, save in her long and silent prayers, which somewhat

tranquillized her spirit. The landscape now took a more terrific

character: the snow fell heavily on ground already covered with it.

They seemed entering the Hell of Ice described by Dante. From the foot

of the precipices to the mountain-tops, all varieties were concealed.

The pines, now clothed in white, were mirrored in the winter like

spectral trees. Oswald and Lucy gazed in silence; speech would have

seemed presumptuous; nature was frozen into dumbness, and they were

mute like her. Suddenly they perceived, on an immense extent of snow,

a long file of darkly clad figures carrying a bier towards a church.

These priests, the only living beings who broke this desert solitude,

preserved their wonted pace. The thought of death lent it a gravity

which not even the bleakness of the air tempted them to forget. Here

was the mourning of nature and of man for vegetable and for human life.

No color was left--that black, that white, thus united, struck the soul

with awe. "What a sad omen!" sighed Lady Nevil.--"Lucy," interrupted

Oswald, "trust me, it is not for you."--"Alas!" he thought, "it was

not beneath such auspices I travelled with Corinne. Where is she now?

may not these gloomy objects be but warnings of what I am to suffer?"

Lucy's nerves were shaken by the terrors of her journey. This kind

of fear is almost unknown to an intrepid man; and she mistook for

carelessness of her, Oswald's ignorance of such alarm's possible

existence. The common people, who have no better exercise for fancy,

love to exaggerate all hazards, and delight in the effect they thus

produce on their superiors. The inn-keepers, every winter, tell their

guests wild tales of "_le Mont_," as if it were an immovable monster,

guarding the vales that lead to the land of promise. They watch the

weather for formidable symptoms, and beg all foreigners to avoid

crossing Mont Cenis during _la tourmente_. This is a wind announced by

a white cloud, spread like a sheet in the air, and by degrees covering

the whole horizon. Lucy had gained all possible information, unknown to

Nevil, who was too much occupied by the sensation of re-entering Italy

to think on these reports. The possible end and aim of his pilgrimage

agitated his wife still more than did the journey itself, and she

judged everything unfavorably. In the morning of their ascent, several

peasants beset her with forebodings; those hired to carry her up the

mountain, however, assured her that there was nothing to apprehend:

she looked at Nevil, and saw that he laughed at these predictions;

therefore, piqued by his security, she professed herself ready to

depart. He knew not how much this resolution cost her, but mounted a

horse and followed the litter which bore his wife and child. The way

was easy, till they were about the centre of the flat which precedes

the descent, when a violent hurricane arose. Drifts of snow blinded

Lucy's bearers, and often hid Oswald from her view. The religious men

who devote their lives to succor travellers on the Alps began to ring

their alarm-bell; yet, though this sound proclaimed the neighborhood of

benevolent pity, its rapid and heavy repetition seemed more expressive

of dismay than assistance. Lucy hoped that Oswald would propose passing

the night at this monastery; but, as she said nothing, he thought it

best to hasten on, while daylight lasted. Lucy's bearers inquired,

with some uneasiness, if she wished them to descend. "Yes," she said,

"since my Lord does not oppose it." She erred in thus suppressing her

feelings: the presence of her child would have excused them; but, while

we love one by whom we cannot deem ourselves beloved, each instant

brings its own sense of humiliation. Oswald remained on horseback,

though that was the least safe method of descent, but he believed

himself thus secure against losing sight of his wife and child. From

the summit, Lucy looked down on the abrupt road which she would have

taken for a precipice, had not steeps still more perpendicular been

close at hand. She pressed her darling to her heart with strong

emotion. Oswald observed this, and, quitting his saddle, joined the

men who carried her litter. The graceful zeal with which he did this

filled her eyes with tears; but, at that instant, the whirlwind rose

so furiously that her bearers fell on their knees, exclaiming: "O

God, protect us!" Lucy regained her courage; and, raising herself,

held Juliet towards Lord Nevil. "Take your child, my love!" she said.

Oswald received it, answering: "And you too---come, I can carry ye

both!"--"No," she said, "only save _her!_!"--"Save!" he repeated: "is

there any danger? Unhappy wretches--why did you not tell us?"--"They

did," interrupted Lucy.--"And you concealed it from me? How have I

merited is cruel reserve?" He wrapped his cloak round Juliet, and

cast down his eyes in deep disquietude; but heaven most mercifully

appeased the storm, and lent a ray which showed them the fertile plains

of Piedmont. In another hour they arrived unharmed at Novalaise, the

first Italian town after crossing Mont Cenis. On entering the inn, Lucy

embraced her child, and returned her fervent thanks to God. Oswald

leaned pensively near the fire, and, when she rose, held out his hand

to her, saying: "You were alarmed then, love?"--"Yes, dear."--"Why

would you go on?"--"You seemed impatient to proceed."--"Do you not know

that, above all things, I dread exposing you to pain or danger?"--"It

is for Juliet that they are to be dreaded," she replied, taking the

little one on her lap to warm it, and twisting round her fingers the

beautiful black curls that the snow had matted on that fair brow.[1]

The mother and child formed so charming a picture, that Oswald gazed on

them with tender admiration; but Lucy's silence discouraged the feeling

which might else have led to a mutual understanding. They arrived at

Turin, where the season was unusually severe. The vast apartments of

Italy were destined to receive the sun. Their freshness in summer is

most welcome; but, in the depth of winter, they seem cheerless deserts;

and their possessors feel like pigmies in the abode of giants. The

death of Alfieri had just occasioned a general mourning among his proud

countrymen. Nevil no longer recognized the gayety formerly so dear to

him. The absence of her he loved disenchanted both nature and art: he

sought intelligence of her, and learned that for five years she had

published nothing, but lived in seclusion at Florence. He resolved on

going thither; not to remain, and thus violate the affection he owed

to Lucy, but to tell Corinne how ignorant he had been of her residence

in Scotland. In crossing Lombardy, he sighed: "How beautiful this

was, when all those elms were in full leaf, with vines linking them

together!"--"How beautiful it was," thought Lucy, "while Corinne shared

it with you!" A humid fog, such as oft arises in so well-watered a

land, obscured their view of the country. During the night they heard

the deluge of southern rain fall on, nay, through the roof, as if water

was pursuing them with all the avidity of fire. Lucy sought in vain for

the charm of Italy: it seemed that everything conspired to veil it in

gloom for Oswald and herself.

[1] Madame de Staël gave Lucy, at three years of age, hair long enough

to make a bracelet. She was thinking of French children. The formal

Edgarmonds were not more likely to deviate from the English fashion

than to christen Nevil's daughter Juliette.--TR.

CHAPTER VI.

Since Lord Nevil had been in Italy, he had not spoken a word of the

language; it even made him ill to hear it. On the evening of his

arrival at Milan, he heard a tap at the door, which was followed by

the entrance of a man, whose dark and prominent face would have been

expressive, if animated by natural enthusiasm: it wore an unvaryingly

gracious smile, and a look that strove to be poetical. He stood at

the door, improvising verses in praise of the group before him, but

such as might have suited any other husband, wife, or child, just as

truly; and so exaggerated, that the speaker seemed to think poetry

_ought_ to have no connection with truth. Oswald perceived that he was

a Roman; yet, harmonious as were the sounds he uttered, the vehemence

of his declamation served but to indicate more plainly the unmeaning

insipidity of all he said. Nothing could be more painful for Oswald

than to hear the Roman tongue thus spoken, for the first time after so

long an interval; to see his dearest memories travestied, and feel his

melancholy renewed by an object so ridiculous. Lucy guessed all this,

and would have dismissed the improvisatore; but it was impossible to

make him hear her: he paced the chamber all gesture and exclamation,

heedless of the disgust he dealt his hearers, proceeding like a machine

that could not stop till after a certain moment. At last that time

arrived and Lucy paid him to depart. "Poetic language," said Oswald,

"is so easily parodied here, that it ought to be forbidden all save

those who are worthy to employ it."--"True," observed Lucy, perhaps a

little too pointedly: "it is very disagreeable to be reminded of what

you admire, by such a burlesque as we have just endured."--"Not so,"

he answered; "the contrast only makes me more deeply feel the power

of genius. This same language, which may be so miserably degraded,

became celestial poetry from the lips of Corinne--_your sister_." Lucy

felt overwhelmed; he had not pronounced that _name_ to her before; the

addition of _your sister_ sounded as if conveying a reproach. She was

half suffocated; and had she given way to her tears, this moment might

have proved the sweetest in her life; but she restrained them, and the

embarrassment between herself and husband became more painful than

before. On the next day the sun broke forth, like an exile returning

to his own land. The Nevils availed themselves of his brightness to

visit Milan cathedral, the _chef-d'œuvre_ of Gothic architecture: it is

built in the form of a cross--fair, melancholy image in the midst of

wealth. Lofty as it is, the ornaments are elaborate as those lavished

on some minute object of admiration. What time and patience must it

have cost! This perseverance towards the same aim is transmitted from

age to age, and the human race, stable at least in thought, can leave

us proofs of this, imperishable almost as thought itself. A Gothic

building engenders true religion: it has been said that the popes have

consecrated more wealth to the building of modern temples than devotion

to the memory of old churches. The light, falling through colored

glass, the singular forms of the architecture, unite to give a silent

image of that infinite mystery which the soul forever feels, and never

comprehends.

Lord and Lady Nevil left Milan when the earth was covered with snow.

This is a sadder sight in Italy than elsewhere, because it is unusual:

the natives lament bad weather as a public calamity. Oswald was vain of

his favorite country, and angry that it would not smile its best for

Lucy. They passed through Placenta, Parma, and Modena. The churches and

palaces of each are too vast, in proportion to the number and fortune

of the inhabitants: all seems arranged for the reception of the great,

who as yet have but sent some of their retinue forward. On the morning

of their reaching Taro, the floods were thundering from the Alps

and Apennines, with such frightful rapidity, that their roar scarce

announced them ere they came. Bridges are hardly practicable over

rivers that so often rise above the level of the plain. Oswald and Lucy

found their course suddenly checked. All boats had been washed away

by the current; and they were obliged to wait till the Italians, who

never hurry themselves, chose to bring them back. The fog confounded

the water with the sky; and the whole spectacle rather resembled the

descriptions of Styx than the bounteous streams lent as refreshments to

the burning south. Lucy, trembling lest the intense cold should hurt

her child, bore it into a fisher's hut, in the centre of which a fire

had been kindled, as is done in Russia.

"Where is your lovely Italy?" she asked Oswald, with a smile. "I

know not when I shall regain her," he answered sadly. Approaching

Parma, and all the cities on that road, they perceived from afar the

flat-terraced roofs that give Italy so original an air. Churches and

spires stand forth boldly amid these buildings; and, after seeing them,

the northern-pointed roofs, so constructed to permit the snow to run

off, create a very unpleasant sensation. Parma still preserves some

fine pictures by Correggio. Oswald took Lucy to a church which, boasts

a _fresco_ of his _La Madonna della Scala_: while he drew the curtain

from before it, Lucy raised Juliet in her arms, that she might better

see the picture; and by chance their attitude was nearly the same with

that of the Virgin and Child. Lucy had so much of the modest grace

which Correggio loved to paint, that Oswald looked from the ideal to

the real with surprise. As she noticed this her lids declined, and the

resemblance became still more strong. Correggio is, perhaps, the only

painter who knew how to give downcast eyes an expression affecting as

that of those raised to heaven. The veil he throws over such looks, far

from decreasing their thoughtful tenderness, lends it the added charm

of heavenly mystery. The Madonna is almost detached from the wall.

A breath might blow its hues away; this fear gives it a melancholy

interest: its adorers oft return to bid such fleeting beauty a fond

farewell. As they left the church, Oswald said to Lucy, "A little

while, and that picture will be no more! but its model is mine own

forever." These soft words touched her heart: she pressed his hand,

about to ask him if he could not trust her tenderness; but as when he

spoke coldly her pride forbade complaint, so when his language made her

blest, she dreaded to disturb that moment's peace, in an attempt to

render it more durable. Thus always she found reasons for her silence,

hoping that time, resignation, and gentleness, might bring at last the

happy day which would disperse her apprehensions.

CHAPTER VII.

Lord Nevil's health improved, yet cruel anxiety still agitated his

heart. He constantly sought tidings of Corinne; but everywhere heard

the same report: how different from the strain in which _her_ name had

once been breathed! Could the man who had destroyed her peace and fame

forgive himself? Travellers drawing near Bologna are attracted by two

very high towers; the one, however, leans so obliquely as to create a

sensation of alarm; vainly is it said to have been built so, and to

have lasted thus for centuries; its aspect is irresistibly oppressive.

Bologna boasts a great number of highly-informed men; but the common

people are disagreeable. Lucy listened for the melodious Italian,

of which she had been told; but the Bolognese dialect painfully

disappointed her. Nothing more harsh can exist in the north. They

arrived at the height of the Carnival, and heard, both day and night,

cries of joy that sounded like those of rage. A population like that of

the Lazzaroni, eat and sleep beneath the numerous arcades that border

the streets: during winter, they carry a little fire in an earthen

vessel. In cold weather, no nightly music is heard in Italy: it is

replaced in Bologna by a clamor truly alarming to foreigners. The

manners of the populace are much more gross in some few southern states

than can be found elsewhere. In-door life perfects social order: the

heat that permits people to live thus in public engenders many savage

habits.[1] Lord and Lady Nevil could not walk forth without being

assailed by beggars, the scourge of Italy. As they passed the prisons,

whose barred windows look upon the streets, the captives demanded

alms with immoderate laughter. "It is not thus," said Lucy, "that our

people show themselves the fellow-citizens of their betters. O, Oswald!

can such a country please you?"--"Heaven forbid," he replied, "that I

should ever forget my own! but when you have passed the Apennines you

will hear the Tuscans--meet intellectual and animated beings, who, I

hope, will render you less severe."

Italians, indeed must be judged according to circumstances. Sometimes

the evil that has been spoken of them seems but true; at others, most

unjust. All that has previously been described of their governments

and religion proves that much may be asserted against them generally,

yet that many private virtues are to be found amongst them. The

individuals chance throws on the acquaintance of our travellers

decide their notions of the whole race; such judgment, of course, can

find no basis in the public spirit of the country. Oswald and Lucy

visited the collections of pictures that enrich Bologna. Among them

was Domenichino's Sibyl; before which Nevil unconsciously lingered so

long, that his wife at last dared ask him, if this beauty said more to

his heart than Correggio's Madonna had done. He understood, and was

amazed at so significant an appeal: after gazing on her for some time,

he replied, "The Sibyl utters oracles no more: her beauty, like her

genius, is gone; but the angelic features I admired in Correggio have

lost none of their charms; and the unhappy wretch who so much wronged

the one will never betray the other." He left the place, to conceal his

agitation.

[1] It was announced at Bologna that a solar eclipse would take place

one day at two. The people flocked to see it; and, impatient at its

delay, called on it to begin, as if it were an actor, who kept them

waiting. At last it commenced; but, as the cloudy weather prevented its

producing any great effect, they set up the most violent _hissings_,

angry that the spectacle fell so far short of their expectations.

BOOK XX.

CONCLUSION.

CHAPTER I.

Oswald now, for the first time, comprehended that Lucy was aware of

his affection for her sister, and deemed that her coolness might have

sprung from secret disquietude: yet now he feared an explanation as

much as she had done; and now she would have told him all, had he

required it; but it would have cost him too much to speak of Corinne,

just as he was about to rejoin her, especially with a person whose

character he so imperfectly knew. They crossed the Apennines, and

regained the sweet climate of Italy. The sea-breeze, so glowing in

summer, now spread a gentle heat. The turf was green, the autumn hardly

over, and yet the spring already peeping forth. The markets teemed

with oranges and pomegranates. The Tuscan tongue was audible; and all

Oswald's dearest memories revived, though now unmixed with hope. The

mild air would have rendered Lucy confiding, had he encouraged her. Had

a Corinne been with them, she would soon have learned their secrets;

but the more congenial they were, in natural and national reserve, the

less easy was it for them to break the ice which kept their hearts

asunder.

CHAPTER II.

As soon as they arrived in Florence, Nevil wrote to Castel Forte; and

in a few minutes the Prince came to him. It was some time ere either

spoke; at last Nevil asked for Corinne. "I have none but sad news

for you," said her friend: "she grows weaker every day; sees no one

but myself, and can scarce attempt any occupation; yet I think she

has been calmer since we learned you were in Italy; though I cannot

disguise from you, that at first her emotions on that intelligence

caused her a relapse of fever. She has not told me her intentions,

for I carefully avoid your name."--"Have the goodness, Prince," said

Oswald, "to give her the letter I wrote you nearly five years since: it

contained a detail of all the circumstances that prevented my hearing

of her journey to Scotland before I married. When she has read it, ask

her to receive me. I long to justify myself with her, if possible.

Her esteem is essential to me, though I can no longer pretend to

more."--"I will obey your desires, my Lord," said Castel Forte, "and

wish that I may in any way be of service." Lady Nevil now entered

the room. Oswald made her known to his friend. She met him coldly.

He gazed on her with much attention, sighed, thought of Corinne, and

took leave. Oswald followed him. "Lady Nevil is very beautiful," said

the Prince: "so fresh and young! Alas! my poor love is no longer so;

yet forget not, my Lord, that she was a brilliant creature when you

saw her first."--"Forget!" exclaimed Oswald: "no, nor ever forgive

myself." He could utter no more, and for the rest of the day was

gloomily silent. Lucy sought not to disturb him: her forbearance was

unlucky; for he only thought: "Had Corinne beheld me sad, she would

have striven to console me." The next morning his anxiety early led him

to Castel Forte. "Well!" he cried, "what says she?"--"That she will

not see you," answered the Prince.--"And her motives?"--"I found her

yesterday, in spite of her weakness, pacing the room all agitation, her

paleness sometimes giving way to a vivid blush, that faded as suddenly

as it rose. I told her your request: after some instants' silence, she

said--if you exact from me her own words: 'That man has done me too

much wrong already; but the foe who threw me into prison, banished and

proscribed me has not yet brought my spirit quite so low as he may

think. I have suffered more than woman ever endured beside--alternate

fondness and indignation making thought a perpetual torture. Oswald

should remember that I once told him it would cost me more to renounce

my admiration than my love. He has despoiled the object of my worship:

he deceived me, voluntarily or otherwise--no matter: he is not what

I believed him. He sported for nearly a year with my affection; and,

when he ought to have defended me, when his actions should have

proved he had a heart, how did he treat me? Can he boast of having

made one generous sacrifice? No! he is happy now, possessing all the

advantages best appreciated by the world. I am dying, let him leave

me in peace!'"--"These words are very harsh," sighed Oswald.--"She is

changed by suffering," admitted Castel Forte; "yet I have often found

her so charitable, that, let me own, she has defended you against

me."--"You think me unpardonable, then?"--"If you permit me to say so.

The injuries we may do women hurt not us in public opinion. The fragile

idol of to-day may be broken to-morrow, without finding one protector;

for that very reason do I respect the sex, whose moral welfare can

find its safety but in our bosoms. A mortal stab is punished by the

law; but breaking a tender heart is a theme for jest. I would forgive

murder by poniard soonest."--"Believe me," cried Nevil, "I, too, have

been wretched--that is my sole extenuation; but formerly she would have

listened to it, now it avails me nothing; yet I will write to her: I

still believe, in spite of all that parts us, she may yet understand

me."--"I will bear your letter, my Lord; but I entreat you temper

it well; you guess not what you are to her. Years can but deepen an

impression, when no new idea has divided its empire. Would you know in

what state she is at present? A fantasy, from which my prayers could

not divert her, enables me to show you." He opened the door of another

room; and Nevil first beheld a portrait of Corinne as she appeared

in Juliet, on the night, of all others, when he felt most enamored

of her. The confidence of happiness breathed from each feature. The

memories of that festal time came back on Oswald's heart; but as he

yielded to them, the Prince took his hand, drew aside a crape from

another picture, and showed him Corinne, painted that same year, in

the black dress, such as she had never abandoned since her return from

England. Her lost lover recollected the figure which had passed him in

the Park: but above all was he struck with the total change in her

appearance. The long black lashes veiled her languid eyes, and threw a

shadow over the tintless cheek: beneath was written this line, from the

Pastor Fido:----

"A pena si pudò dir: 'Questa fu rosa!'"

"Scarcely can we now say: 'This was a rose!'"

"How!" cried Lord Nevil; "looks she like this?"---"Within the last

fortnight still worse," returned the Prince; and Oswald rushed from

him, as if distracted.

CHAPTER III.

The unhappy man shut himself in his room. At the dinner hour, Lucy,

leading Juliet by the hand, tapped gently at his door; he opened it,

saying: "Think not the worse of me, my dear, for begging that I may

be left to myself to-day." His wife raised her child in her arms, and

retired without a word. He now looked at the letter he had written to

Corinne, and, bursting into tears exclaimed: "Shall I, then, make poor

Lucy wretched too? What is my life worth, if it serves but to render

all who love me miserable?"

_Letter from Lord Nevil to Corinne._

"Were you not the most generous of human beings, what could

I say to you, who might weigh me so low by reproaches,

or still lower by your griefs? I have done such ill to

her I loved, that I almost believe myself a monster. Am

I, Corinne? I suffer so much, that I cannot think myself

an utter barbarian! You know, when first I met you, I

was a prey to despair, that nearly brought me to the

grave: I sought not happiness, but struggled long against

your attraction; even when it triumphed, presentiments

of misfortune lingered still. Sometimes I believed you

destined by my father to make me once more feel myself

as well beloved as I had been by him; then did I fear to

disobey his will, in marrying a foreigner. On my return to

England, this sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was

by parental authority. Had he still lived, I should have

felt a right to combat it; but the dead cannot hear us, and

the irrevocable commands of those now powerless, possess a

touching and a sacred force.--Once more surrounded by the

ties of country, I met your sister, selected for me by my

sire, and well according with my wish for a regular, a quiet

life. My weakness makes me dread some kinds of agitation:

my mind is easily seduced by new hopes; but my sick soul

shrinks from resolves that interfere with its original

habits or affections. Yet, Corinne, had I known you were in

England, that proof of tenderness would have decided me.

Ah! wherefore vaunt I what I would have done? Should we

have been content? Am I capable of being so? Could I ever

have chosen any one fate, without still pining after some

other? When you restored my liberty, I fell into the common

error, telling myself that so superior a woman might easily

be estranged from me. Corinne, I have wounded your heart, I

know; but I thought mine the only sacrifice: I deemed you

would forget me. I cannot deny that Lucy is worthy of a

still warmer attachment than I could give her; but since I

learned your voyage to England, and the sorrow I had dealt

you, my life has been a perpetual pain. I sought for death,

certain that when you heard I was no more, you would forgive

me. Doubtless, you can oppose to this years of fidelity and

regret, such as my ingratitude ill merits; yet think--a

thousand complicated circumstances invade the constancy of

man. Imagine, if possible, that I have neither given nor

received felicity; that my heart has been lonely since I

left you, scarce daring even to commune with itself; that

the mother of my child, who has so many titles to my love,

is a stranger to my history and feelings; in truth, that

my habitual sadness has reduced me to the state from which

your cares, Corinne once extracted me. If I have returned to

Italy, not for my health (you cannot suspect me of any love

for life), but to bid you farewell, can you refuse to see

me but once more? I wish it, because I think that it would

benefit you; my own sufferings less prompt this desire. What

use were it that I am miserable, that a dreadful weight

presses upon my heart, if I came hither without obtaining

pardon from you? I ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being

so; but I feel certain that you would be solaced, if you

could think upon me as your friend, and read, in Oswald's

looks and accents, how dear you are to the criminal whose

fate is far more altered than his heart. I respect the

ties I have formed, and love your sister; but the human

breast, wild and inconsistent as it is, can reconcile that

tenderness with what I feel for you. I have nothing to say

for myself that can be written; all I might explain would

but condemn me; yet, if you saw me prostrate before you,

through all my faults and duties, you would perceive what

you are to me still, and that conversation would leave a

balm for both. Our health is failing: Heaven may not accord

us length of days. Let, then, whichever may be destined to

precede the other, feel regretted by the dear friend left

behind. The innocent alone deserve such joy: but may it not

be granted to the guilty? Corinne, sublime soul! you who can

read all hearts, guess what I cannot add, and comprehend

me, as you used to do. Let me but see you; let my pallid

lips touch your weak hand! It was not I alone who wrought

this ruin. No; the same sentiment consumed us both: destiny

struck two hearts, devoting one to crime; that one, Corinne,

may not be the least pitiable."

_Answer._

"If I required but to see and pardon you, I could not for

an instant refuse. Why is it that I do not feel resentment,

although the pangs you have caused me are so dreadful? I

must still love you, not _to hate_. Religion alone would not

disarm me thus. There have been moments when my reason has

left me; others, far sweeter, when I hoped to die before

the day could end; and some in which I have doubted even

virtue: you were to me its image here below: there was no

guide for either my thoughts or feelings, when the same

blow struck both my admiration and my love. What would

have become of me without Heaven's help? Everything in

this world was poisoned by your image: one sole asylum was

left, and God received me. My strength decays, but not that

supporting enthusiasm. I joy to think that the best aim in

life is to become worthy of eternity: our bliss, our bane,

alike tend to this purpose: and you were chosen to uproot

the too strong hold I had on earth. Yet, when I saw your

handwriting, learned that you were but on the other side of

the river, a fearful tumult rose within me: incessantly was

I obliged to tell myself, 'My sister is his wife.' To see

you again appeared felicity: I will not deny that my heart,

inebriated afresh, preferred these indefinite raptures to

an age of calm: but Providence has not abandoned me in this

peril. Are you not the husband of another? What then have I

to say to you? Is it for me to die in your arms? What would

my conscience suffer, if I made no sacrifice? if I permitted

myself another hour with you? I can only appear before my

God with anything like confidence by renouncing it. This

resolution may appease my soul. Such happiness as I felt

while you loved me is not in harmony with our mortal state;

it agitates us, because we feel its fleetness: but religious

meditation, that aims at self-improvement, and refers every

cause to duty, is a state of peace; and I know not what

ravages the mere sound of your voice would make on the

repose I believe I have regained. Why do you tell me that

your health is impaired? Alas! I am no longer your nurse;

but still, I suffer with you. May God bless and prolong your

days, my Lord! Be happy, but be so through piety. A secret

communion with Divinity gives us in ourselves the power of

confiding to a being who consoles us: it makes two friends

of one spirit. Do you still seek for what the world calls

happiness? Where will you find more than my tenderness would

have bestowed? Know you that in the deserts of the New World

I should have blessed my lot had you permitted me to follow

you? I could have served you like a slave, have knelt before

you as a heavenly being, had you but loved me truly. What

have you done with so much faith? You have changed it into

an affliction peerless as itself. Outrage me not, then, by

one hope of happiness, except in prayer: let our thoughts

meet in heaven! Yet when I feel myself about to die, perhaps

I will be taken somewhere whence I may behold you pass.

Assuredly, when my failing eyes can see no more, your image

will be with me; but might not a recent review of your

features render it more distinct? Deities of old were never

present at the hour of death, so I forbid you mine; but I

should like to see you perfectly when Oswald, Oswald! behold

how weak I am, when abandoned to your recollection! Why has

not Lucy sought me? Though she is your wife, she is still my

sister. I have some kind and even generous things to tell

her. And your child--I ought not to meet you; but you are

surrounded by my family. Do they disown me still? or fear ye

that poor little Juliet would be scared at seeing me? Ghost

as I look, I yet could smile upon your daughter. Adieu, my

Lord, adieu! Remember that I might call you brother. At

least you will mourn for me externally, and, as a kinsman,

follow my remains to Rome: let them be borne by the road

where my car passed; and pause upon the spot where you

restored my crown. Yet no, I am wrong, Oswald: I could exact

nothing that could afflict you, only one tear, and sometimes

a fond look towards the heaven where I shall soon await you."

CHAPTER IV.

Many days elapsed ere Oswald could regain his composure: he avoided

the presence of his wife, and passed whole hours on the banks of the

river that separated him from Corinne; often tempted to plunge amid its

waves, that they might bear his body to the abode he never must enter

living. Amazed as he was at Corinne's wish to see her sister, he longed

to gratify it; yet how introduce the subject? He saw that Lucy was

hurt by his distress, and hoped that she would question him; but she

forbore, merely expressing a desire to visit Rome or Naples: he always

begged a brief delay, and Lucy, with cold dignity, was silent.

Oswald, at least, could secure Corinne the presence of his little

daughter, and secretly bade the nurse take Juliet to her. He met

them on their return, and asked the child how she had enjoyed her

visit. She replied by an Italian phrase, and with an accent so

resembling Corinne's that her father started. "Who taught you that,

dear?" he asked.--"The lady," she replied.--"And how did she behave

to you?"--"Oh, she kissed me, and cried; I don't know why; but it

made her worse, for she looks very ill, papa."--"Do you love her,

darling?"--"That I do. I'll go to her every day. She has promised to

teach me all she knows; and says, that she will make me grow like

Corinne: what's that, pa? the lady did not tell me." Lord Nevil could

not answer: he withdrew, to conceal his agitation, but bade the nurse

take Juliet daily to Corinne. Perhaps he erred in disposing of his

child without her mother's consent; but in a few days the young pupil's

progress was astonishing: her masters for Italian and music were all

amazed. Nothing had ever pained Lucy more than her sister's influence

over Juliet's education. The child informed her that, ill as the lady

seemed, she took great pains with her. Lucy's heart would have melted,

could she have seen in all this anything but a design to win Nevil

back. She was divided between the natural wish of being sole directress

for her daughter, and self-reproach at the idea of withholding her

from such valuable instructions. One day Oswald came in as Juliet was

practising a music lesson. She held a lyre proportioned to her size;

and her pretty arms fell into Corinne's own attitude so perfectly, that

he felt gazing on the miniature copy of a fine picture, with the added

grace of childish innocence. He could not speak, but sank, trembling,

on a seat. Juliet then played the Scotch air which he had heard at

Tivoli, before the design from Ossian; he listened breathlessly. Lucy,

unseen, stole behind him: as Juliet ceased, her father took her on his

knee, and said: "The lady on the banks of the Arno taught you this, did

she not?"--"Yes, papa; but it hurt her very much: she was so ill while

she taught me, that I begged her to leave off, but she would not.

She made me promise to play you that tune every year, on a particular

day, I believe it was the 17th of November."--"My God!" cried Oswald

bursting into tears. Lucy now stepped forward, and, taking Juliet by

the hand, said, hastily: "My Lord, it is too much to rob me of my

child's affection; that solace, at least, is due to my misfortunes."

She retired. Oswald would have followed her, but was refused. At the

dinner hour he was told that she had been out for some time, not

saying where. He was fearfully alarmed at her absence; but she shortly

returned, with a calm and gentle air, such as he little expected. He

would now have confided in her, and gained her pardon by sincerity,

but she replied: "Explanation, indeed, is needful to us both; yet, my

dear Lord, permit me still to defer it: you will soon know my motives

for this request." Her address, he perceived, was more animated than

usual; and every day its warmth, its interest, increased. He could not

understand this change: its cause is soon told. And that Lucy so long

had hidden in her heart escaped in the brief reproach she made her

husband; and, as usually happens to persons who suddenly break from

their habitual character, she now ran into extremes, resolving to seek

Corinne, and ask her if she had determined perpetually to disturb her

wedded peace; but, as she arrived at her sister's door, her diffidence

returned; nor would she have had courage to enter, had not the invalid,

who saw her from a window, sent Thérésina to entreat her. Lucy ascended

to the sick chamber, and all her anger vanished at sight of its

occupant. The sisters embraced in tears. Corinne then set an example

of frankness which it was impossible for Lucy not to follow. Such was

that mind's ascendency over every one, that, in her presence, neither

dissimulation nor constraint could be preserved. Pallor and weakness

confirmed her assertion, that she had not long to live: this sad truth

added weight to her counsels. All Castel Forte had told her, and all

she had guessed from Oswald's letters, proved that reserve and coldness

separated the Nevils from each other. She entered very simply on this

delicate subject: her perfect knowledge of the husband's character

enabled her to point out why he required to find spontaneously in

those he loved the confidence which he could not solicit, and to be

received with cheerfulness proportioned to his own susceptibility

of discouragement. She described her past self impartially, as if

speaking of another, and showed how agreeable it must be for a man to

find, united with moral conduct, that desire to please which is often

inspired by a wish to atone for the loss of virtue. "Many women," she

said, "have been beloved, not merely in spite of, but for the sake of

their very errors; because they strove to extort a pardon by being ever

agreeable, and having so much need of indulgence dared impose no laws

on others. Therefore, dear sister, pride not in your perfections; let

your charms consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne and Lucy in

one: nor let your own worth excuse to you a moment's neglect of your

graces, nor your self-respect render your manners repulsive. Were your

dignity ill founded, it might wound _him_ less; for an over-exertion

of certain rights chills the heart more than do unjust pretensions.

Love delights in paying more than is due, where nothing is exacted."

Lucy thanked her sister with much tenderness for the interest thus

generously evinced in her welfare; and Corinne resumed: "If I were

doomed to live, I might not be capable of it; but now my only selfish

wish is, that Oswald should find some traces of my influence in you

and in his child; nor ever taste one rapture that reminds him not of

Corinne." Lady Nevil returned to her every day, and with the most

amiable delicacy, studied to resemble the being so dear to her Lord.

His curiosity increased, as he remarked the fresh attractions she thus

acquired: he knew that she must owe them to Corinne; yet Lucy having

promised to keep the secret of their meetings, no explanation occurred.

The sufferer proposed yet to see the wedded pair together, but not

till she was assured that she had but a few moments to live; but she

involved this plan in so much mystery, that Lucy knew not in what

manner it was to be accomplished.

CHAPTER V.

Corinne desired to bid Nevil and Italy such a farewell as might recall

the days on which her genius shone with its full splendor. A pardonable

weakness. Love and glory were ever blended in her mind; and, at that

moment when her heart was about to resign all earthly ties, she wished

Oswald to feel, once more, that it was the greatest woman of her day

he had destroyed--the woman who best knew how to love and think--whose

brilliant success he had obscured in misery and death.

She had no longer the strength required by an improvisatrice; but in

solitude, since Oswald's return, had resumed her zest for writing

poetry; she therefore named a day for assembling in one of the

galleries all who desired to hear her verses, begging Lucy to bring

her husband; adding, "I feel I may demand this of you now." Oswald

was fearfully agitated, wondering what subject she had chosen, and

whether she would recite herself: the bare possibility of looking on

her threw him into extreme confusion. The morning came, and winter

frowned on it with all the sternness of the north: the wind howled,

the rain beat violently against the windows, and by an eccentricity

more frequent in Italy than elsewhere, the thunder added a sense of

dread to all this gloom. Oswald could not speak: everything around him

increased the desolation of his soul. He entered the hall with Lucy: it

was immensely crowded. In an obscure recess was placed a sofa, whereon

Corinne was to recline, being too ill to read her own verses. Dreading

to show herself, changed as she was, she had chosen those means of

seeing Oswald unseen. As soon as she knew that he was there, she veiled

her face, and was supported to this couch; from time to time staying

to take breath, as if that short space had been a painful journey:

the last steps of life are ever slow and difficult. Seating herself,

her eyes sought Oswald, found him, and involuntarily starting up, she

spread her arms; but instantly fell back, turning away her face, like

Dido when she met Æneas in a world which human passions should not

penetrate. Castel Forte detained Lord Nevil, who now, utterly beside

himself, would have flown to fall at her feet: the Prince reminded him

of the respect he owed Corinne before the world.[1]

A young girl, dressed in white, and crowned with flowers, now appeared

on the stage which had been erected. Her meek and peaceful face

touchingly contrasting the sentiments she was about to breathe; it was

Corinne's taste, which thus mingled something sweet with thoughts in

themselves too dreary. Music nobly and affecting prepared the auditors.

The hapless Oswald could not tear his eyes from Corinne: she was to him

as an apparition that haunts a night of fever: it was through his own

deep sighs that he heard the death-song of the swan, which the woman he

had so much wronged addressed to his heart.

THE LAST SONG OF CORINNE.

Take ye my solemn farewell! O, my friends,

Already night is darkening on my eyes;--

But is not heaven most beautiful by night?

Thousands of stars shine in the kindling sky,

Which is an azure desert during day.

Thus do the gathering of eternal shades

Reveal innumerable thoughts, half lost

In the full daylight of prosperity.

But weaken'd is the voice which might instruct;

The soul retires within itself, and seeks

To gather round itself its failing fire.

From my first days of youth, my inward hope

Was to do honor to the Roman name;

That name at which the startled heart yet beats.

Ye have allow'd me fame, O generous land!

Ye banished not a woman from the shrine!

Ye do not sacrifice immortal gifts

To passing jealousies, Ye who still yield

Applause to Genius in its daring flight;

Victor without the vanquished--Conqueror,

Yet without spoil;--who, from eternity,

Draws riches for all time.

Nature and Life! with what deep confidence

Ye did inspire me! I deem'd all grief arose

For what we did not feel, or think enough:

And that we might, even on this our earth,

Beforehand taste that heavenly happiness,

Which is--but length in our enthusiasm,

But constancy in love.

No, I repent it not, this generous faith;

No, that caused not the bitter tears I've shed,

Watering the dust which doth await me now.

I had accomplish'd all my destiny--

I had been worthy all the gifts of Heaven,

If I had only vow'd my sounding lyre

To celebrate that goodness all divine,

Made manifest throughout the universe.

And thou, my God!--Oh, thou wilt not reject

The offering of the mind; for poetry,

Its homage is religious, and the wings

Of thought but serve to draw more near to thee.

Religion has no limits, and no bonds;--

The vast, the infinite, and the eternal,

Never from her may Genius separate.

Imagination from its earliest flight,

Past o'er the bounds of life: and the sublime

Is the reflection of divinity.

Alas! my God, had I loved only thee;[2]

If I had raised my head aloft in heaven--

From passionate affections shelter'd there,

I had not now been crush'd before my time--

Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams

Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives,

I only know it by my strength of grief:

Under the features of an enemy

I recognize it now.

Farewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own land!

Farewell, remembrances of infancy,

Farewell! Ah, what have ye to do with death?

And ye who in my writings may have found

Feelings, whose echo was within your soul,

Oh, friends of mine--where'er ye be--farewell!

Corinne has suffer'd much--but suffer'd not

In an unworthy cause: she has not lost

At least her claim on pity.

Beautiful Italy! it is in vain

To promise me your loveliness; my heart

Is worn and wasted; what can ye avail?

"Would ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs!

Would ye recall my happiness, and thus

Make me revolt against my fate?

Meekly I do submit myself. Oh, ye

Who may survive me--when the spring returns,

Remember how I loved its loveliness!

How oft I sung its perfume and its air.

I pray you sometimes to recall a line

From out my songs--my soul is written there:

But fatal Muses, love and misery,

Taught my best poetry.

When the designs of mighty Providence

Are work'd in us, internal music marks

The coming of the angel of the grave:

Nor fearful, nor yet terrible he spreads

His white wings; and, though compass'd by night,

A thousand omens tell of his approach.

If the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear

His voice; and when night falls, the shadows round

Seem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe.

At noon, when life sees only the clear sky,

Feels only the bright sun, the fated one

Whom Death hath called, upon the distance marks

The heavy shade is so soon to shroud

All nature from their eyes.

Youth, hope, emotions of the heart--ye all

Are now no more. Far from me--vain regrets;

If I can yet obtain some falling tears,

If I can yet believe myself beloved,

It is because I am about to die.

Could I recall my fleeting life--that life,

Soon would it turn upon me all its stings.

And Rome! Rome, where my ashes will be borne!

Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive,

If, with a trembling step, I join the shades,

The multitude of your illustrious dead!

Forgive me for my pity of myself.[3]

Feelings, and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance

As might have yielded fruit--expire with me.

Of all the powers of mind which nature gave,

The power of suffering has been the sole one,

Which I have used to its extent.

It matters not.--I do obey.--Whate'er

May be the mighty mystery of death,

That mystery at least must give repose.

Ye do not answer me, ye silent tombs!

Merciful God, thou dost not answer me!

I made my choice on earth, and now my heart

Has no asylum. Ye decide for me,

And such a destiny is best. L. E. L.

Thus ended the last song of Corinne. The hall resounded with deep, sad

murmurs of applause. Lord Nevil could not support the violence of his

emotion, but fell senseless to the ground. Corinne, beholding him in

this condition, would have flown to him, but her strength failed as she

attempted to rise. She was borne home, and from that hour no hopes were

entertained of saving her. Lucy hastened to her, so afflicted by her

husband's grief, that she threw herself at her sister's feet, imploring

her to admit him; but Corinne refused. "I forgive him," she said, "for

having broken my heart. Men know not what they do; society persuades

them that it is sport to fill a heart with rapture, and then consign it

to despair; but God's free grace has given me back composure. The sight

of Oswald would revive sensations that ill befit a death-bed. Religion

only possesses the secret clue through this terrific labyrinth. I

pardon the being I so loved," she continued, with a failing voice; "may

he be happy with you! but when in his turn he is called on to die, then

may he recollect the poor Corinne. She will watch over him, if Heaven

permits; for those never cease to love, whose love has had the strength

to cost them life."

Oswald stood at her door, sometimes about to enter, spite her

prohibition, sometimes motionless with sorrow. Lucy passed from one

to the other, like an angel of peace, between despair and death. One

evening Corinne appeared more easy, and the parents went for a short

time to their child, whom they had not seen for three days. During

their absence the dying woman performed all the duties of religion;

then said to the reverend man who received her last solemn confession:

"Now, father, you know my fate. Judge me! I have never taken vengeance

on my foes; the griefs of others never asked my sympathy in vain;

my faults sprung but from passions not guilty in themselves, though

human pride and weakness led them to excess and error. Think you, my

father--you who have so much longer experience than I--that God will

pardon me?"--"Yes, child, I hope so; is not your heart now wholly

his?"--"I believe it, father; take away this portrait, it is Oswald's;

lay on my breast the image of Him who descended to this life--not for

the powerful, nor the inspired, but for the sufferer, the dying; they

need his mercy." She then perceived Castel Forte, who wept beside her

bed, and holding out her hand to him, exclaimed: "My friend! you only

are beside me now. I lived for love; yet, but for you, should die

alone." Her tears fell as she spoke, yet she added: "There is no help

for such a moment; friends can but follow us to the brink; there begin

thoughts too deep, too troubled, to be confided." She begged they would

remove her to a sofa, whence she could gaze upon the sky. Lucy now came

to her side; and the unhappy Oswald, following his wife, fell at the

feet of Corinne, who would have spoken to him, but her voice failed:

she raised her eyes to Heaven; the moon was covered with just such a

cloud as they had seen on their way to Naples. Corinne pointed to it

with a dying hand--one sigh--and that hand sank powerless.

Oswald fell into such distraction that Lucy trembled for his life. He

followed the funeral pomp to Rome; then retired to Tivoli, where he

remained long, without seeing even his wife and child. At last, duty

and affection restored him to them; they returned to England. Lord

Nevil's domestic life became most exemplary: but did he ever pardon his

past conduct? Could the approving world console him? After the fate he

had enjoyed, could he content himself with common life? I know not: nor

will I, on that head, either absolve or condemn him.

[1] Not a word of what he owed his wife.--TR.

[2] "Had I but served my God with half the zeal," &c.--_Wolsey_.

(SHAKSPEARE.)

[3] "J'a pitié de moi-même."--CORNEILLE.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Corinne; or, Italy, by Germaine, Madame de Staël