Madame de Staël, the most famous and brilliant of the many
famous Frenchwomen of the Revolution and the Empire, was born,
like Bonaparte himself, of alien parents. Her father was
Necker, the eminent Swiss minister of finance under Louis XVI,
whose triumph and exile were among the startling events of the
opening stage of the Revolution; whilst her mother, also
Swiss, had been the lover of the historian Gion and now
presided over one of the most brilliant _salons_ in Paris.
Anne Marie Louise Germaine Necker was born at Paris on April
22, 1766. In 1787 she was married--unhappily--to Baron de
Staël-Holstein, Swedish Ambassador at Paris. She was in peril
during the Terror, but escaped to Switzerland. A few years
afterwards she showed keen political activity against
Napoleon, who respected her hostility so profoundly that he
would not suffer her to approach Paris. Madame de Staëls
"Corinne, or Italy," is accounted one of her two masterpieces,
the other one being "On Germany." (See Vol. XX.) It was
published in 1807, and was written at Coppet, in Switzerland,
her place of residence and exile during her many enforced
sojourns from Paris by order of the Emperor. "Corinne" not
only revealed for the first time to the Frenchmen of her day
the grandeur and mystery and charm of Italy, but also showed
the national characteristics of French and Englishmen for the
first time in their respective, and in a European light.
Moreover, as one European critic has pointed out, it is also
one of the first, and still one of the subtlest, studies in
the psychology of sex and emancipation of woman of the
nineteenth century. Madame de Staël's relations with the
clever and ambitious young statesman and writer, Benjamin
Constant, formed the chief source of her inspiration in
writing "Corinne," as it formed his in writing "Adolphe."
Madame de Staël died in Paris, July 14, 1817.
_I.--The Roman Poetess_
When Oswald, Lord Nevil, awoke on his first morning in Rome, he heard
church bells ringing and cannon firing, as if announcing some high
solemnity. He inquired the cause and learned that the most celebrated
woman in Italy would that morning be crowned at the capital--Corinne,
the poetess and improvisatrice, one of the loveliest women of Rome.
As he walked the streets, he heard her named every instant. Her family
name was unknown. She had won fame by her verses five years before,
under the simple name of Coe; and no one could tell where she had lived
nor what she had been, in her earlier days.
The, triumphal procession approached, heralded by a burst of melody.
First came a number of Roman nobles, then an antique car drawn by four
spotless steeds, escorted by white clad maidens. Not until he beheld the
woman in the car did Oswald lay aside his English reserve and yield to
the spirit of the scene. Corinne was tall, robust like a Greek statue,
and transcendently beautiful. Her attitude was noble and modest; while
it manifestly pleased her to be admired, yet a timid air blended with
her joy, and she seemed to ask pardon for her triumph.
She ascended to the capitol; the assembled Roman poets recited her
praises; Prince Castel Forte, the most honoured of Roman noblemen,
uttered a eulogy of her; and, ere she received the destined bays, she
took up her lyre and in accordance with custom gave a poetic
improvisation. The subject of her passionate chant was the glory of
Italy; and amid the impetuous applause that followed, Corinne, looking
round, observed Oswald. She saw him to be English; she was struck by his
melancholy, and by the mourning he wore. Taking up her lyre again, she
spoke some touching stanzas on death and consolation that went straight
to his heart.
The crown of bays and myrtle was placed on her head; she descended from
the Capitol amid a burst of triumphant music. As she passed Oswald, the
crown accidentally fell from her head. He quickly picked it up and
restored it to her, with a few words of homage in Italian. What was his
surprise when she thanked him in perfect English!
On the evening of the next day, Oswald was introduced to Corinne at her
own house by the Count d'Erfeuil, a Frenchman who had been his companion
in the journey into Italy. The Prince Castel Forte and all the other
guests paid her the most assiduous attention; Oswald gazed on her for
the most part in silence, wondering at the mingled sweetness and
vivacity of her conversation, realising that she possessed a grace that
he had never met before. Although she invited him to meet her again, he
did not go on the next evening; he was restrained by a kind of terror at
the feeling which excited him.
"Oh, my father," he sighed, "had you known Corinne, what would you have
thought of her?"
For the mourning that Oswald wore was for his father. A terrible event
in Oswald's life had drawn the two apart; his father had died ere he
could return to ask forgiveness. But his father had blessed him on his
deathbed, and it was Oswald's whole desire in the grief that preyed upon
him, to live in all things as his dead parent would have wished him to
live.
The attraction of Corinne's society soon drew him back to her presence,
and during the next fortnight she, at her own proposal, guided him in
his exploration of Rome. Together they wandered through the ruins, the
churches, the art galleries. Their opinions were seldom in agreement;
Corinne was characteristically and brightly Italian in her views, Oswald
characteristically and sombrely English. But each was conscious, none
the less, of keen intellectual sympathy with the other; and Oswald,
without speaking of the love of which he began to be conscious, made her
sensible of it every hour in the day. His proud retiring attachment shed
a new interest over her life. Accustomed as she was to the lively and
flattering tributes of the Italians, this outward coldness disguising
intense tenderness of heart captivated her imagination.
But one morning she received from him a note saying that indisposition
would confine him to his house for some days. Oswald had made up his
mind to avoid Corinne; he felt too strongly the power of her charms.
What would his father have said of this woman? Could she, the brilliant
poetess, be expected to possess the English domestic virtues which his
father valued above all things in a wife? Besides, there was a mystery
about her; she had not revealed her name and family even to him; nor had
he ever had an explanation of her perfect knowledge of English.
Corinne was terrified, on receiving the note, by the idea that he would
fly without bidding her adieu. Unable to rest in the house where Oswald
came not, she wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to meet him. As
she was seated in grief beside the Fount of Trevi, Oswald, who had
paused there at the same moment, saw her countenance reflected in the
water. He started, as if he had seen her phantom; but a moment later
Corinne had rushed forward and seized his arm--then, repenting of her
impetuosity, she blushed, and covered her face to hide her tears.
"Dear Corinne!" he cried, "has my absence pained you?"
"Yes," she replied, "you must have known it would. Why then inflict such
pangs on me? Have I deserved them?"
Her emotion greatly affected Oswald. "I will visit you again to-morrow,
Corinne," he said. "Swear it!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "I do."
_II.--The Living and the Dead_
Oswald's natural irresolution had been augmented by misfortune, and he
hesitated before entering upon an irrevocable engagement. Although he no
longer sought to disguise his affection for Corinne, he did not propose
marriage to her. She, on her part, was mortified by his silence. Often
he was on the point of breaking it; but the thought of his father
restrained him--and the thought of Lucy Edgarmond, the English girl whom
his father had wished him to marry, when she was old enough, and whom he
had not seen since she was a child of twelve. What, he asked himself,
again and again, was his duty?
One day, as he was visiting her at her house at Tivoli, she took her
harp and sang one of those simple Scotch ballads, the notes of which
seemed fit to be borne on the wailing breeze. Oswald's heart was touched
at the memories thus awakened of his own country; his eyes filled with
tears.
"Ah, Corinne," he cried, "does then my country affect your heart? Could
you go with me there, and be the partner of my life?"
"Surely I could," she answered, "for I love you."
"In love's name, then, tell me who you are, Corinne; have no more
secrets from me."
"Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald. I only ask that you require not my
story until the religious solemnities of Easter are over; is not the
support of heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must
decide my fate?"
"Corinne," he said, "if thy fate depends on me, it shall no longer be a
sad one."
When Easter was over, Corinne set out for Naples, where she had many
friends and admirers; and Oswald accompanied her there. She still feared
to tell the story of her life.
"Who can tell," she said to Oswald, "if, when I have opened my heart to
you, you will remain the same? How can I help trembling beneath such
doubt?"
To encourage her, and to exchange confidences honourably with her, he
told her his own secret He had been skilfully drawn into an intrigue
with a scheming Frenchwoman, utterly against his father's wishes; when
he had escaped from the net that had been cast for him, and was hurrying
homeward, he heard the news that the being whom he loved and revered
most of all mankind was dead. He had knelt at his father's tomb and
sworn in atonement that he would never marry without his consent. But
how obtain the consent of one who was no more? Lucy Edgarmond--Corinne
started at the name--had been destined by his father for his bride. Was
the wish one that could be set aside? He had simply advised the match,
for Lucy was still a child with character unformed.
"Ere I met you," said Oswald, "I meant to fulfil his wish as an act of
expiation; but now," he went on passionately, "you have triumphed over
my whole being. My doubts are over, love; I am yours for ever. Would my
father have had it otherwise had he known you?"
"Hold," cried Corinne, "speak not thus to me yet!"
"Ah, tell me what you have to tell me!"
"Presently I shall; and I shall hear my sentence from your lips
unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel."
Ere she revealed her story, Corinne gave a fête, as if to enjoy one more
day of fame and happiness ere her lover pronounced her doom. It was held
on the cape of Micena. The lovely bay and its islands lay before the
party; Vesuvius frowned in the background. As the party embarked to
return in the glowing calm of the evening hour, Corinne put back her
tresses that she might better enjoy the sea air; Oswald had never seen
her look so beautiful.
"Oh, my love, oh, my love," he whispered, "can I ever forget this day?"
"Alas!" returned Corinne, "I hope not for such another day."
"Corinne!" he cried, "here is the ring my father gave his wife, let me
give it to you, and while you keep it, let me be no longer free."
"No, no! take it back," she answered in a stifled voice.
"I shall not," he replied; "I swear never to wed another till you send
back that ring."
"Perhaps when you have read my history, the dreadful word adieu--"
"Never," cried Oswald, "until my deathbed--fear not that word till
then."
"Alas!" said Corinne, "as I looked at the heavens a minute ago, the moon
was covered by a cloud of fatal aspect. A childish superstition came
back to my mind. To-night the sky condemns our love."
That evening Corinne's maid brought him the papers in which she had
written her story.
_III.--Corinne's Story_
"Oswald, I begin with the avowal that must determine my fate. Lord
Edgarmond was my father. I was born in Italy; his first wife was a Roman
lady; and Lucy, whom they intended for your bride, is my sister by my
father's second marriage.
"I lost my mother ere I was ten years old, and remained in the care of
an aunt at Florence until I was fifteen, when my father brought me to
his home in Northumberland. My stepmother was a cold, dignified, silent
woman, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child Lucy, then
three years old; but she usually wore so positive an air that it seemed
impossible to make her understand a new idea.
"My tastes and talents had already been formed, and they were but
ill-suited to the dismal monotony of my life in Northumberland. I was
bidden to forget Italy; I was not allowed to converse on poetry or art;
I had no congenial friends. Even the sun, that might have reminded me of
Italy, was often hidden by fog. My only occupation was the education of
my half-sister; my only solace, the company of my father.
"'My dear child, he said to me once, it is not here as in Italy; our
women have no occupation save their domestic uses. Your talents may
beguile your solitude; but in a country town like this all that attracts
attention excites envy. One must not combat the habits of a place in
which one is established. It is better to bear a little ennui than to be
beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons for what you
do.'
"Lord Nevil was my father's intimate friend, and it was yourself of whom
he thought for my husband. Had we then met and loved, our fate would
have been cloudless. But when I was presented to Lord Nevil I desired,
perhaps too ardently, to please him; I displayed all my talents,
dancing, singing, and extemporising before him--I believe, though I am
not certain--that I appeared to Lord Nevil somewhat too wild; for
although he treated me very kindly, yet, when he left my father he said
that he thought his son too young for the marriage in question. Oswald,
what importance do you attach to this confession? I might suppress it,
but I will not. Is it possible that it will prove my condemnation?
"When my father died, my despair was uncontrollable. I found myself
without support. My only adult relation was my stepmother, who was as
frigid as ever towards me. I was attacked by that homesick yearning
which makes exile more terrible than death. All the country around me
was dull and sullen. I longed for the sunshine, the vine, the music, the
sweet language of Italy. At twenty-one I had a right to my mother's
fortune, and whatever my father had left me. Then did I first dream of
returning to Italy, and devoting my life to the arts.
"When I suggested the possibility of my doing so to Lady Edgarmond, she
replied, with dry indifference, 'You are of age, and the mistress of
your conduct; but if you take any step which would dishonour you in the
eyes of the world, you owe it to your family to change your name and be
reported dead.' This heartless scorn helped me to come to a decision. In
less than a week I had embarked on a vessel for Leghorn. I set forth
without warning my stepmother, but left a letter apprising her of my
plans.
"For a time I lived in Florence, whither Lady Edgarmond wrote me word of
her having spread the report that I had travelled southwards for my
health and had died on the voyage. During the following five years, as
you know, I won fame as Corinne the poetess.
"And now you know my history--I have concealed nothing. My happiness
depends entirely upon you. When you have read this, I would see you; my
impatience will bring me to your side, and I shall read my fate at a
glance; for grief is a rapid poison--and the heart, though weak, never
mistakes the signal of irrevocable destiny."
_IV.--Parting and Pursuit_
"Well," said Corinne, struggling to appear calm, when she went to Oswald
to learn her fate, "you have had time enough--speak! tell me what you
have resolved!"
"Corinne," answered Oswald, "my heart is unchanged. We will both live
for love. I will return."
"Return!" interrupted Corinne; "ah, you leave me then! How all is
changed since yesterday!"
"Dearest love," he replied, "be composed. It is necessary that I should
ascertain my father's reasons for opposing our union seven years ago. I
will hope for the best, Corinne; but if my father decides against you, I
will never be the husband of another, though I cannot be yours."
One night in Venice a few weeks later, when Corinne was leaving a scene
of festivity of which she had been the most brilliant ornament, Oswald
led her aside. She marked his paleness and agitation.
"What has happened?" she cried.
"I must start for England to-night. My regiment is about to embark for
the West Indies, and I am recalled to rejoin it."
"Ah!" moaned Corinne, "when I tell myself to-morrow 'I shall see him no
more,' the thought may kill me; happy am I if it does."
"Why do you fear? Is my solemn promise nothing?"
"Oh, I believe it; but listen--when you are in London, you will discover
that love promises bind not your honour. Will you find excuses in these
sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound on me? Cannot you at least pity
me for loving you thus?"
"Stay!" cried Oswald, seizing her in his arms, "this is too much.
Dearest, I cannot leave you!"
"Nay, you must," replied Corinne, recalled to herself by his words.
"My love," answered Oswald, trying to calm himself, "I shall strive
during my absence to restore to you your due rank in your father's
country. If I fail, I will return to Italy, and live or die at your
feet."
A light gleamed through the window, and the gondola that was to take
Oswald away stopped at the door.
"They are here--adieu--all is ended!" sobbed Corinne.
"Oh God! O my father!" he exclaimed, "what do ye exact of me?"
He flung himself once more into her arms and then, trembling and pale,
like one prepared for the torture, he passed from her sight.
On reaching England, he found that his regiment's departure had been
postponed, and, while waiting, he visited Northumberland, told Lady
Edgarmond of his affection for her stepdaughter, and demanded Corinne's
restoration to her rank. Lady Edgarmond unbendingly refused.
"I owe to your father's memory," she added, "my exertion to prevent your
union with her if I can. Your father's letter on the subject is in the
hands of his old friend, Mr. Dickson."
Oswald speedily set out for his ancestral estate in Scotland, anxious to
see Mr. Dickson and read the letter. In Northumberland he had seen
Lucy--a beautiful and sweetly innocent girl, one whom he could plainly
see to be a maiden after his father's own heart.
His father's letter confirmed his worst fears. He had wholly disapproved
of Oswald's union with the girl who afterwards became Corinne. He had
thought her wholly unfitted for domestic English life, and had feared
that she would destroy his son's English character and transform him
into an Italian. Oswald was to be acquainted with his wishes if
necessary; he knew he would respect them.
The irresolution and unhappiness into which Oswald was plunged was
increased by the fact that his letters to Corinne received no replies.
Had her love ceased when his presence was removed? His friends told him
of the fickleness of Italian women, and he began to believe that she had
deserted him. The truth was that Corinne was not in Italy to receive his
letters. She had come to England.
Desolated by his absence, and alarmed by the tone of the letters from
him that had reached her, she had resolved to follow him. On arriving in
London, she had been seized by an illness which prevented her from
seeing him. On her recovery the people with whom she was staying took
her to the theatre where Mrs. Siddons was playing. Oswald was at the
theatre with Lady Edgarmond and Lucy. Corinne observed with a sinking
heart the delicate attention which Oswald paid to her half-sister.
She saw him next at a review, where he appeared at the head of his
regiment. After the march past, he escorted Lucy in a ride on horseback.
Corinne noted his kind solicitude, his promptitude when Lucy was in
danger, the tenderness with which he supported her. What more did
Corinne need to convince her of his love for Lucy?
That evening she went to his door, and learnt that he had left for
Scotland an hour earlier. She felt that she must see him again; so she,
also, departed for Scotland.
Lady Edgarmond gave a ball on her Scottish estate, and among the guests
was Oswald, whose home was near at hand. In the grounds lurked Corinne,
seeking an opportunity of meeting her lover. In the midst of the
festivities, a white-clad figure hurried out alone; Corinne knew it to
be her half-sister. Lucy, believing that no eye was upon her, knelt down
in the grove where stood her father's tomb. "Pray for me, O my father!"
she said; "inspire him to choose me as the partner of his life! Oh God,
render me worthy of the love of Oswald!"
"Grant her prayer," whispered Corinne, "and give her sister a peaceful
grave."
She drew out the ring that Oswald had given her, and wrapped it in a
piece of paper on which she wrote the words, "You are free." She thrust
this into the hand of a man near the house with a request that he should
hand it to a servant to be delivered to Lord Nevil. She saw the man give
it to a servant. Then she fled.
_V.--The Clouded Moon_
To Oswald's assured knowledge of his father's wishes, and his fear that
Corinne had been untrue to him, had been added a third consideration,
Lady Edgarmond's health was rapidly declining, and when she died Lucy
would be unprotected in the world. Was it not his duty to protect her?
He resolved to undertake the duty, if he could only be free from his
promise to Corinne.
When his freedom came, with the mysterious return of the ring, all his
doubts were removed. Soon afterwards he married Lucy, and after a short
interval--during which he felt intense anxiety as to whether he had not
wronged Corinne--he went with his regiment to the West Indies.
Ere she had left Scotland, Corinne had heard the announcement of the
proposed marriage. She retired to Florence, and dwelt there in unending
misery. Her poetic faculty, her love of the arts, could not console her,
for they were utterly subjugated by her despair. Her whole soul had been
given to her love for Oswald. And when he had forsaken her, her life had
been broken by the blow.
It was four years ere Oswald returned to England, and soon afterwards he
and Lucy were summoned to the deathbed of Lady Edgarmond. He now had a
dangerous illness; in his delirium he cried for the southern sun. Lucy
heard him, and remembered Corinne. Oswald had striven to forget his
former passion, but could not help at times contrasting Corinne's warmth
of feeling with Lucy's coldness. Lucy had been taught by her mother that
it was immodest to avow affection even for a husband. She loved Oswald,
but her pride concealed her love.
Oswald was ordered to Italy by his physicians, and his wife and child
accompanied him. At Milan the earth was snow-covered; beyond there, the
rivers were in flood, and the land was covered by cold, damp fog.
"Where is your lovely Italy?" asked Lucy.
"I know not where or when I shall regain her," sadly answered Oswald. As
he approached Florence, where he had heard that Corinne was dwelling,
his heart became terribly agitated. He had learnt, through his old
friend d'Erfeuil, that Corinne had been faithful to him, that she had
followed him to England, and sought to see him, that he and not she was
the betrayer.
On arriving at Florence, Oswald met Prince Castel Forte, whose faithful,
unrewarded homage to Corinne was still unchanged. Corinne, the Prince
told him, was ill and growing weaker every day. Oswald's desertion, he
said plainly, had mortally wounded her.
Oswald, dismally repentant, handed Castel Forte a letter to Corinne in
which he begged permission to see her. In answer she declined the
permission, but asked to see his wife and child.
The little girl was taken to her; Lucy had resolved not to go, but was
struck with fear lest the child's affection should be won away from her.
She went at length, determined to reproach Corinne, but all her anger
vanished at the sight of the wasted woman on the sickbed. The sisters
embraced in tears.
Castel Forte had told Corinne of the reserve and coldness that separated
Lucy from her husband. Her last wish was to reconcile them, and thus aid
by means of another, the happiness of the man she loved.
"Pride not yourself in your perfections, dear sister," she said; "let
your charm consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne and Lucy in
one; let not grace be injured by self-respect."
Lucy bore her words in mind; the barriers between herself and her
husband were gradually removed, and Oswald guessed who was removing
them.
At last the end came. Corinne lay on a sofa, where she could gaze upon
the sky. Castel Forte held her dying hand. Lucy entered; behind her came
Oswald. He fell at her feet. She would have spoken, but her voice
failed. She looked up--the moon was covered by just such a cloud as they
had seen at Naples. Corinne pointed to it--one sigh--and her hand sank
powerless in death.
* * * * *