I t is true
that a happy combination of colours, and of clair-obscure,
is harmony to the eye; but as it shows us life, it should
give forth life' s strong and varied passions.
that a happy combination of colours, and of clair-obscure,
is harmony to the eye; but as it shows us life, it should
give forth life' s strong and varied passions.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
W ith gentle firmness she enj oined his
silence, yet contrived to vary the hours by reading, music,
and sometimes by a sportive dialogue, in which she sus-
tained both parts; -- serious or gay, it was for his sak
she supported herself, veiling beneath a thousand graceful
arts the solicitude which consumed her; she was never
e that
off her guard for an instant. S he perceived what O swald
suffered, almost before himself: the courage he assumed
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 133
deceived her not: she did, indeed, " anticipate the ask ing
eye," while her chief endeavour was that of diverting his
mind, as much as possible, from the value of these tender
offices. I f he turned pale, the rose fled from her lip, and
her hand trembled as she brought him a restorative:
even then would she smile through her tears, and press his
hand to her heart, as if she would fain have added her
stock of life to his. A t last her efforts succeeded: he reco-
vered. " Corinne," he said, as soon as permitted to speak
" why has not my friend E dgarmond witnessed your con-
duct? he would have seen that you are not less good than
great; that domestic life with you would be a perpetual
enchantment; that you differ from our women only in
adding charms to virtue. I t is too much! here ends the
combat that so nearly reduced me to the grave. Corinne!
you, who conceal your own secrets, shall hear all mine, and
pronounce our doom. " -- " O ur doom," she replied, "
you feel as I do, is-- not to part; yet believe me, till now,
at least, I have never dared to wish myself your wife : the
scheme of my ex istence is entirely disordered by the love
that every day enslaves me more and more; yet I k now
,
if
not if we ought to marry. " -- " Corinne," he cried, " do
you despise me for having hesitated? Can you attribute
my delay to contemptible motives? H ave you not guessed
that the deep remorse to which I have been for two years
apreyalonehasbeenthecause? " -- " I k nowit," she
answered. " H ad I suspected you of considerations foreign
to those of the heart, you would not have been dear to me.
B ut life, I k now, belongs not all to love; habit and me-
mory weave such nets around us that even passion cannot
q uite destroy; brok en for a moment, they will grow again,
as the ivy clasps the oak . - My dear O swald! let us give
no epoch of life more than it req uires. A t this, it is essential
to me that you leave me not. The dread of a sudden se-
paration incessantly pursues me. Y ou are a stranger here;
no ties detain you: if once you go, all is over; nothing will
be left to me of you, but my own grief. N ature, the arts,
poetry, all that I have shared with you, lately, alas! with
you alone, will speak no longer to my soul! I never wak e
without trembling. I ask the fair day if it has still a right
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? 134CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
to shine; if you, the sun of my being, are near me yet?
O swald, remove this fear, and I will not look beyond the
present' s sweet security. " -- " Y ou k now," replied he, " that
no E nglishman should renounce his country: war may
recall me. " -- " O h God! "
pare my mind? " H er limbs q
of the most terrific danger. " I
she cried, " would you pre-
uivered, as if at the approach
" tak e me with you-- asyourwife-- yourslave!
denly regaining her spirits, she continued,-- " O
will never depart without warning me? N ever!
L isten! in no country is a criminal led to torture without
being allowed some hours to collect his thoughts. I t must
not be by letter: you will come yourself, to tell me -- to
hear me-- ere you fly? H ow! you hesitate to grant my
prayer? " -- " N o," returnedhe," youwishit; andI
swear, if my departure be necessary, I will apprise you
of it, and that moment shall decide our fate. " S he left
him.
CH A PTE R I I .
Corinne now carefully avoided all ex planations. S he
wished to render her lover' s life as calm as possible.
Their every interview had tended to convince her that the
disclosure of what she had been, and sacrificed, was but too
lik ely to mak e an unfavourable impression; she, therefore,
sought again to interest him in the still unseen wonders of
R ome, and thus retard the instant that must clear all doubts.
S uch a situation would be insupportable beneath any other
feeling than love, which sheds such spells over every mi-
nute, that, though still desiring some indefinite futurity, we
receive a day as a century of j oy, and pain, so full of sen-
sations and ideas, is each succeeding morrow. L ove is
the emblem of eternity: it confounds all notion of time;
effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end: we
fancy that we have always possessed what we love, so dif-
ficult is it to imagine how we could have lived without it.
The more terrible separation seems the less probable it
f it be even so,"
she added,
" Thensud-
swald, you
will you?
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 135
becomes: lik e death, it is an evil we rather name than
believe, as if the inevitable were impossible. Corinne,
who, in her innocent artifices for varying O swald' s amuse-
ments, had hitherto reserved the statues and paintings, now
proposed tak ing him to see them, as his health was suf-
ficiently re-established. -- " I t is shameful," she said, with
a smile, " that you should be still so ignorant; therefore
to-morrow we will commence our tour through the galle-
ries and museums. " -- " A s you will," replied N evil;
" but, indeed, Corinne, you want not the aid of such re-
sources to k eep me with you; on the contrary, I mak e a
sacrifice to obey you, in turning my gaze to any other
obj ect, be it what it may. "
They went first to the V atican, that palace of sculpture,
where the human form shines deified by paganism, as are
the virtues by Christianity. I n those silent halls are
assembled gods and heroes; while beauty, in eternal sleep,
look s as if dreaming of herself were the sole pleasure she
req uired. A s we contemplate these admirable forms and
features, the design of theTDivinity, in creating man, seems
revealed by the noble person he has deigned to bestow on
him. The soul is elevated by hopes full of chaste enthu-
siasm; for beauty is a portion of the universe, which, be-
neath whatever guise presented, awak es religion in the
heart of man. W hat poetry invests a face where the most
sublime ex pression is fix ed for ever, where the grandest
thoughts are enshrined in images so worthy of them!
S ometimes an ancient sculptor completed but one statue in
his life; that constituted his history. H e daily added to
its perfection: if he loved or was beloved; if he derived
fresh ideas from art or nature, they served but to embellish
the features of this idol. H e translated into look s all the
feelings of his soul. Grief, in the present state of society
so cold and oppressive, then actually ennobled its victim;
indeed to this day the being who has not suffered can
never have thought or felt. B ut the ancients dignified
grief by heroic composure, a sense of their own strength,
developed by their public freedom. The loveliest Grecian
statues were mostly ex pressive of repose. The L aocoon and
the N iobe are among the few stamped by sorrow; but it
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? 136 C0R 1N N E J O R I TA L Y .
is the vengeance of heaven and not human passion that they
both recall. The moral being was so well organised of old,
the air circulated so freely in those manly chests, and po-
litical order so harmonised with such faculties, that those
' times scarce ever, lik e our own, produced discontented men.
S ubtle as were the ideas then discovered, the arts were fur-
nished with none but those primitive affections which alone
can be typified by eternal marble. H ardly can a trace of
melancholy be found on their statues. A head of A pollo,
in the J ustinian palace, and one of the dying A lex ander,
indeed, betray both thoughtfulness and pain; but they
belonged to the period of Grecian slavery, which banished
the tranq uil pride that usually pervaded both their sculp-
ture and their poetry. Thought, unfed from without, preys
on itself, digging up and analysing its own treasures; but
it has not the creative power which happiness alone can
give. E ven the antiq ue sarcophagii of the V atican teem
but with martial or j oyous images: the commemoration
of an active life they thought the best homage they could
pay the dead -- nothing weak ened or discouraged the
living. E mulation was the reigning principle in art as in
policy: there was room for all the virtues, as for all the
talents. The vulgar prided in the ability to admire, and
genius was worshipped even by those who could not aspire
to its palm. Grecian religion was not, lik e Christianity,
the solace of misery, the wealth of the poor, the future of
the dying: it req uired glory and triumph; it formed the
apotheosis of man. I n this perishable creed even beauty
was a dogma: artists, called on to represent base or fero-
cious passions, shielded the human form from degradation,
by blending it with the animal, as in the satyrs and cen-
taurs. O n the contrary, when seek ing to realise an un-
usual sublimity, they united the charms of both sex es; as
in the warlik e Minerva, and the A pollo Musagetes; feli-
citous propinq uity of vigour and sweetness, without which
neither q uality can attain perfection! Corinne delayed
O swald some time before the sleeping figures that adorn
the tombs, in the manner most favourable to their art. S he
observed that statues representing an action suspended at
its height, an impulse suddenly check ed, create, sometimes.
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 137
a painful astonishment; but an attitude of complete repose
offers an image that thoroughly accords with the influence
of southern sk ies. The arts there seem but the peaceful
spectators of nature; and genius itself, which agitates a
northern breast, there appears but one harmony the more.
O swald and Corinne entered the court in which the sculp-
tured animals are assembled, with the statue of Tiberius in
the midst of them: this arrangement was made without
premeditation; the creatures seem to have ranged them-
selves around their master. A nother such hall contains
the gloomy work s of the E gyptians, resembling mummies
more than men. This people, as much as possible, assimi-
lated life with death, and lent no animation to their human
effigies: that province of art appeared to them inaccessible.
A bout the porticoes of this museum each step presents
new wonders: vases, altars, ornaments of all k inds, sur-
round the A pollo, the L aocoon, and the Muses. H ere may
one learn to appreciate H omer and S ophocles, attaining a
k nowledge of antiq uity that cannot be elsewhere acq uired.
A mid these porticoes are fountains, whose incessant flow
gently reminds you of past hours: it is two thousand
years since the artists of these chefs-d' amvre ex isted. B ut
the most melancholy sights here are the brok en statues, the
torso of H ercules, heads separated from their trunk s; the
foot of a J upiter, which it is supposed must have belonged
to the largest and most symmetrical statue ever k nown.
O ne sees the battle-field whereon Time contended with
Glory; these mutilated limbs attesting the tyrant' s victory,
and our own losses. A fter leaving the V atican, Corinne
led O swald to the colossal figures on Monte Cavallo, said
to be those of Castor and Pollux . E ach of these heroes
govern a foaming steed with one hand: this struggle of
man with brute, lik e all the work s of the ancients, finely
ex emplifying the physical powers of human nature, which
had then a dignity it no longer possesses. B odily ex ercises
are generally abandoned to our common people: personal
vigour, in the antiq ue, appeared so intimately connected
with the moral q ualities of those who lived in the heart of
war, a war of single combats, that generosity, fierceness,
command, and height of stature, seemed inseparable, ere
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? 138 corinne; on italy.
intellectual religion had throned man' s potency in his soul.
A s the gods wore our shape, every attribute appears sym-
bolical: the " brawns of H ercules" suggest no recollections
of vulgar life, but of divine, almighty will, clothed in super-
natural grandeur.
Corinne and O swald finished their day by visiting the
studio of the great Canova. The statues gained much from
being seen by torchlight, as the ancients must have thought,
who placed them in their Thermes, inaccessible to the day.
A deeper shade thus softens the brilliant uniformity of the
marble: its pallor look s more lik e that of life. A t that
time Canova had j ust achieved an ex q uisite figure, intended
i for a tomb; it represented Grief leaning on a L ion. Co-
rinne detected a resemblance to N evil, with which the
artist himself was struck
his head, to avoid this k
beloved, " Corinne, I
. O ur E nglishman turned away
ind of attention, whispering to his
believed myself condemned to this
eternal grief ere I met you, who have so changed me, that
sometimes hope, and always a delicious agitation, pervades
the heart that ought to be devoted to regret. "
CH A PTE R I I I .
I n painting, the wealth of R ome surpasses that of the rest
of the world. O nly one point of discussion can ex ist on
the effect which her pictures produce -- does the nature of
the subj ects selected by I taly' s great masters admit the
varied originality of passion which painting can ex press?
The difference of opinion between O swald and Corinne on
this point, as on others, sprung but from the difference of
their countries and creeds. Corinne affirmed that S cripture
subj ects were those most favourable to the painter; that
sculpture was the Pagan' s art, and painting the Christian' s;
that Michael A ngelo, the painter of the O ld, and R aphael,
that of the N ew Testament, must have been gifted with
sensibility profound as that of S hak speare or R acine.
" S culpture," she said, " can present but a simple or ener-
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA I j . 139
getic life to the eye, while painting displays the mys-
teries of retirement and resignation, and mak es the im-
mortal spirit speak through the fleeting colours. H istorical
facts, or incidents drawn from the poets, are rarely pic-
turesq ue. O ne had need, in order to understand them,
to k eep up the custom of writing the speeches of their per-
sonages on ribands rolling from their mouths. B ut re.
ligious pieces are instantly comprehended by the whole
world; and our attention is not turned from the art in
order to divine their meaning.
" The generality of modern painters are too theatrical.
They bear the stamp of an age in which the unity of ex ist-
ence and natural way of life, familiar to A ndrew Mantegne,
Perugin, and L eonardo de V inci, is entirely forgotten.
To this antiq ue repose they were wont to add the depth of
feeling which mark s Christianity. F or this I admire the
compositions of R aphael, especially in his early work s.
A ll the figures tend towards the main obj ect, without
being elaborately grouped to create a sensation -- this ho-
nesty in the arts, as in all things else, characterises true
genius; for speculations on success usually destroy enthu- |
siasm. There is a rhetoric in painting as in poetry; and
those who have it not seek to veil the defect in brilliant
but illusive aux iliaries, rich costume, remark able postures,
while an unpretending virgin, with her infant at her
breast, an old man attending the mass of B olsena, a
young one leaning on his staff, in the school of A thens,
or S aint Cecilia raising her eyes to heaven, by the mere
force of ex pression, act most powerfully on the mind.
These natural beauties grow on us each day, while of
work s done for effect our first sight is always the most
B trik ing. " (2) Corinne fortified these reflections by another
-- it was the impossibility of our sympathising with the my-
thology of the Greek s and R omans, or inventing on their
ground. " W e may imitate them by study," she said;
" but the wings of genius cannot be restrained to flights
for which learning and memory are so indispensable, and
wherein it can but copy book s or statues. N ow in pic-
tures alluding to our own history and faith the painter is
personally inspired; feeling what he depicts, retracing
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? 140CO B I N N E ; O R I TA L T.
what he has seen, he draws from the life. Portraitures
of piety are mental blessings that no others could replace;
as they assure us that the artist' s genius was animated by
the holy zeal which alone can support us against the dis-
gusts of life and the inj ustice of man. "
O swald could not, in all respects, agree with her: he
was almost scandalised at seeing that Michael A ngelo had
attempted to represent the Deity himself in mortal shape;
he did not think that we should dare embody H im; and could
scarcely call up one thought sufficiendy ethereal thus to
ascend towards the S upreme B eing, though he felt that
images of this k ind, in painting, always leave us much to
desire. H e believed, with Corinne, that religious medita-
tion is the most heartfelt sentiment we can ex perience, and
that which supplies a painter with the grandest physiogno-
mical mysteries; but as religion represses all movements
of the heart to which she has not given birth, the faces of
saints and martyrs cannot be much varied. H umility, so
lovely in the sight of heaven, weak ens the energy of
earthly passion, and necessarily monotonises the generality
of scriptural subj ects. W hen the terrible A ngelo dealt
with them, he almost changed their spirit, giving to his
prophets that formidable air more suitable to heathen gods
than to saints. O ft, too, lik e Dante, he mix ed Pagan at-
tributes with those of Christianity. O ne of the most
affecting truths in its early establishment is the lowly
station of the apostles who preached it, the slavery of the
J ews, so long depositaries of the promise that announced
the S aviour. This contrast between insignificance of
means and greatness of result is morally beautiful. Y et,
in painting, where means alone can be displayed, Christian
subj ects must needs prove less attractive than those derived
from the times of heroic fable. O f all arts, none save
music can be purely religious. Painting cannot be content
with an ex pression indefinite as that of sound.
I t is true
that a happy combination of colours, and of clair-obscure,
is harmony to the eye; but as it shows us life, it should
give forth life' s strong and varied passions. Undoubtedly
such passages of history ought to be selected as are too
well k nown to be unintelligible: facts must flash on us
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 141
from canvass, for all the pleasures the fine arts bestow are
thus immediate; but with this eq uality provided, histori-
cal pictures have the advantage of diversified situation and
sentiments. N evil asserted, too, that a preference should
be given to scenes from tragedies, or the most touching
poetic fictions, so that all the pleasures of imagination
might thus unite. Corinne contended against this opinion,
seducing as it was; convinced that the encroachment of
one art upon another would be mutually inj urious. F or
sculpture loses by attempting the groups that belong to
painting, painting by aspiring to dramatic animation.
The arts are limited, not in their powers but in their
means. Genius seek s not to vanq uish the fitness of things
which its glory consists in guessing. " Y ou, my dear
O swald," said Corinne, " love not the arts for themselves,
but as they accord with your own feelings; you are moved
merely when they remind you of your heart' s afflictions.
Music and poetry better suit such a disposition than those
which speak to the eye, however ideally; they can but
please or interest us while our minds are calm and our
fancy is free. W e need not the gaiety which society con-
fers in order to enj oy them, but the composure born of
soft and radiant climes. W e ought, in the arts that re-
present ex terior obj ects, to feel the universal harmony of
nature, which, while we are distressed, we have not within'
ourselves. " -- " I k now not," answered O swald, " if I
have sought food for my sorrows in the arts, but at least I
am sure that I cannot endure their reminding me of
physical suffering. My strongest obj ection against S crip-
ture pictures is the pain I feel in look ing on blood and
tortures, however ex alted the faith of their victims. Phi-
loctetus is, perhaps, the only tragic subj ect in which such
agonies can be admitted; but with how much of poetry
are his cruel pangs invested! They are caused by the
darts of H ercules; and surely the son of E sculapius can
cure them. H is wounds are so associated with the moral
resentment they stir in that pierced breast, that they can
ex cite no symptom of disgust. B ut the Possessed in R a-
phael' s Transfiguration is disagreeable and undignified.
W e would fain discover the charm of grief, or fancy it
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? 142CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y .
lik e the melancholy of prosperity. I t is the ideal of human
fate that ought to appear. N othing is more revolting than
ensanguined gashes or muscular convulsions. I n such
pictures we at once miss and dread to find ex actitude of
imitation. W hat pleasure could such attempted fidelity
bestow? it is always either more horrible or less lovely
than nature herself. " -- " Y ou are right, my L ord," said
Corinne, " in wishing that these blots should be effaced from
Christian pictures; they are unnecessary. N evertheless,
allow that soul-felt genius can triumph over them alL
L ook on the death of S t. J erome by Dominichino; that
venerable frame is livid, emaciated; but life eternal fills
his aspect; and the miseries of the world are here collected
but to melt before the hallowed rays of devotion. Y et,
dear O swald, though I am not wholly of your mind, I
wish to show you that, even in differing, we have always
some analogy. I have attempted a realisation of your
ideal in the gallery to which my brothers in art have con.
tributed, and where I have sk etched a few designs my.
self: you shall see the advantages and defects of the styles
you prefer in my house at Tivoli. The weather is fine;
shall we go there to-morrow ?
doubt my reply? " he ex
blessing in the world but you?
" -- "
claimed. "
The life I
My love, can you
H ave I another
have too much
freed from other occupations is now filled by the felicity of
seeing and of hearing my Corinne! "
CH A PTE R I V .
O swald himself drove the four horses that drew them nex t
day towards Tivoli: he delighted in their rapid course,
which seemed to lend fresh vivacity to the sense of ex -
istence-- an impression so sweet when enj oyed beside those
we love. H e was careful, even to fear, lest the slightest
accident should befall his charge-- that protecting air is such
a link betwix t man and woman! Corinne, though less easily
alarmed than the rest of her sex , observed his solicitude
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 143
with such pleasure as made her almost wish she could he
frightened, that she might claim the re-assurances of O swald.
W hat gave him so great an ascendency over her was the
occasional unex pected contrasts with himself that lent a
peculiar charm to his whole manner. E very one admired his
mind and person; but both were particularly interesting
to a woman at once thus constant and versatile. Though
occupied by nothing but Corinne, this same interest per-
petually assumed a new character: sometimes reserve pre-
dominated; then he abandoned himself to his passion; .
anon he was perfectly amiable and content; as probably,
by a gloomy bitterness, betrayed the sincerity of his
distress. A gitated at heart, he strove to appear serene,
and left her to guess the secrets of his bosom. This k ept
her curiosity for ever on the alert. H is very faults set off
his merits; ' and no man, however agreeable, who was devoid
of these contradictions and inconsistences, could thus have
captivated Corinne: she was subdued by her fear of him.
H e reigned in her heart by a good and by an evil power--
by his own q ualities, and by the anx iety their ill-regulated
state inspired. There was no safety in the happiness he
bestowed. This, perhaps, accounts for the ex altation of
her love; she might not have thus adored aught she did
not fear to lose. A mind of ardent yet delicate sensibility
may weary of all save a being whose own, for ever in
motion, appears lik e a heaven, now clear and smiling, n< J w
lapped in threatening clouds. O swald, ever truly, deeply
attached, was not the less often on the brink of abj uring
the obj ect of his tenderness, because long habit had per-
suaded him that he could find nothing but remorse in the
too vivid feelings of his breast.
O n their way to Tivoli, they passed the ruins of A drian' s
palace, and the immense garden that surrounded it. H ere
were collected the rarest productions of the realms con-
q uered by R ome. There are still seen the scattered stones
called E gypt, I ndia, and A sia. F arther off is the retreat
where Z enobia ended her days. The q ueen of Palmyra
sustained not, in adversity, the greatness of her doom: she
k new neither how to die for glory, lik e a man, nor how,
lik e a woman, to die rather than betray her friend. A t
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? 144CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
last they beheld Tivoli, once the abode of B rutus, A u-
gustus, Maecenas, Catullus, but, above all, H orace, whose
verses have immortalised these scenes. Corinne' s villa stood
near the loud cascade of Teverone. O n the top of the
hill, facing her garden, was the S ibyl' s temple. The
ancients, by building these fanes on heights lik e this, sug-
gested the due superiority of religion over all other pursuits.
They bid you " look from nature up to nature' s God,"
and tell of the gratitude that successive generations have
paid to heaven. The landscape, seen from whatever point,
includes this its central ornament. S uch ruins remind one
not of the work of man. They harmonise with the fair
trees and lonely torrent, that emblem of the years which
have made them what they are. The most beauteous land
that awok e no memory of great events were uninteresting,
compared with every spot that history sanctifies. W hat
place could more appropriately have been selected as the
home of Corinne than that consecrated to the S ibyl, a
woman divinely inspired? The house was charming;
deck ed in all the elegance of modern taste, yet evidently
by a classic hand. Y ou saw that its mistress understood
felicity in its highest signification; that which implies all
that can ennoble, while it ex cites our minds. A sighing
melody now stole on O swald' s ear, as if the nodding
flowers and waving shrubs thus lent a voice to nature.
Corinne informed him that it proceeded from the E olian
harps, which she had hung in her grottoes, adding music
to the perfume of the air. H er lover was entranced.
" Corinne," he cried, throwing himself at her feet, " till
to-day I have censured mine own bliss beside thee; but
now I feel as if the prayers of mine offended parent had
won me all this favour; the chaste repose I here enj oy
tells me that I am pardoned. F earlessly, then, unite thy
fate with mine: there is no danger now ! " -- "
W ell," she
replied, " let us not disturb this peace by naming F ate.
W hy strive to gain more than she ever grants? W hy
seek for change while we are happy? " H e was hurt by
this reply. H e thought she should have understood his
readiness to confide, to promise, all. This evasion, then,
offended and afflicted him: he appreciated not the delicacy
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 145
which forbade Corinne to profit by his weak ness. W here
we really love, we often dread more than we desire the
solemn moment that ex changes hope for certainty. O swald,
however, concluded that, much as she loved him, she
preferred her independence, and therefore shunned an in-
dissoluble tie. I rritated by this mistak e, he followed her
to the gallery in frigid silence. S he guessed his mood,
but k new his pride too well to tell him so; yet, with a
vague design of soothing him, she lent even to general and
indifferent topics the softest tones of affection.
H er gallery was composed of historical, poetic, re-
ligious subj ects, and landscapes. N one of them contained
any great number of figures. Crowded pictures are,
doubtless, arduous task s; but their beauties are mostly
either too confused or too detailed. Unity of interest,
that vital principle of art, as of all things, is necessarily
frittered away. The first picture represented B rutus,
sitting lost in thought, at the foot of the statue of R ome,
while slaves bore by the dead bodies of the sons he had
condemned; on the other side, their mother and sisters
stood in frantic despair, fortunately ex cused, by their sex ,
from that courage which sacrifices the affections. The
situation of B rutus, beneath the statue of R ome, tells all.
B ut how, without ex planation, can we k now that this is
B rutus, or that those are his children, whom he himself
has sentenced? and yet the event cannot be better set
forth by any painting. R ome fills its back -ground, as yet
unornamented as a city, grand only as the country that
could inspire such heroism. " O nce hear the name," said
Corinne, " and doubtless your whole soul is given up to it;
otherwise might not uncertainty have converted a pleasure
which ought to be so plain and so easy into an abstruse
enigma? I chose the subj ect, as recalling the most ter-
rible deed a patriot ever dared. The nex t is Marius, tak en
by one of the Cimbri, who cannot resolve to k ill so great a
man. Marius,indeed, is an imposing figure; the costume and
physiognomy of the Cimbri leader ex tremely picturesq ue:
it mark s the second era of R ome, when laws were no more,
but when genius still ex erted a vast control. N ex t come
the days in which glory led but to misfortune and insult.
L
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? 14-6 CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y .
The third picture is B elisarius, bearing his young guide,
who had ex pired while ask ing alms for him: thus is the
hlind hero recompensed by his master; and in the world he
vanq uished hath no better office than that of carrying to
the grave the sad remains of yon poor boy, his only faith-
ful friend. S ince the old school, I have seen no truer
figure than that: the painter, lik e the poet, has loaded him
with all k inds of miseries -- too many, it may be, for com-
passion. B ut what tells us that it is B elisarius? what
fidelity to history is ex acted both of artist and spectator!
a fidelity, by the way, often ruinous to the beautiful. I n
B nltus we look on virtues that resemble crime; in Marius,
on fame causing but distress; in B elisarius, on services
req uited by the black est persecution. N ear these I have
hung two pictures that console the oppressed spirit by
reminding it of the piety that can cheer the brok en
heart, when all around is bondage. The first is A l-
bano' s infant Christ asleep on a cross. Does not that
stainless, smiling face convince us that heavenly faith
hath nought to fear from grief or death? The following
one is Titian' s J esus bending under the weight of the
cross. H is mother on her k nees before him: what a
proof of reverence for the undeserved oppressions suf-
fered by her Divine S on! W hat a look of resignation is
his! yet what an air of pain, and therefore sympathy, with
us! That is the best of all my pictures; to that I turn
my eyes with rapture inex haustible; and now come my
dramatic chefs-d' oeuvre, drawn from the work s of four
great poets. There is the meeting of Dido and iE neas in
the E lysian fields: her indignant shade avoids him; re-
j oicing to be freed from the fond heart which yet would
throb at his approach. The vaporous colour of the phan-
toms, and the pale scenes around them, contrast the air of
life in iE neas, and the S ibyl who conducts him; but in
these attempts the bard' s description must far transcend
all that the pencil reaches: in this of the dying Clorinda
our tears are claimed by the remembered lines of Tasso,
where she pardons the beloved Tancred, who has j ust dealt
her the mortal wound. ' Painting inevitably sink s beneath
poetry, when devoted to themes that great authors have
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? CO B I N N B J O B I TA L Y . 147
already treated. O ne glance back at their words effaces all
before us. Their favourite situations gain force from im-
passioned eloq uence; while picturesq ue effect is most fa-
voured by moments of repose, worthy to be indefinitely
prolonged, and too perfect for the eye ever to weary of
their grace. Y our terrific S hak speare, my L ord, afforded
the ensuing subj ect. The invincible Macbeth, about to
fight Macduff, learns that the witches have eq uivocated
with him; that B irnam wood is coming to Dunsinnane,
and that his adversary was not of woman born, but ' un-
timely ripped' from his dying mother. * Macbeth is sub-
dued by his fate, not by his foe; his desperate hand still
grasps its glaive, certain that he must fall, yet to the last
opposing human strength against the might of demons.
There is a world of fury and of troubled energy in that
countenance: but how many of the poet' s beauties do we
lose? Can we paint Macbeth hurried into crime by the
dreams of ambition, conj ured up by the powers of sorcery?
H ow ex press a terror compatible with intrepidity; how
characterise the superstition that oppresses him? the
ignoble credulity, which, even while he feels such scorn of
life, forces on him such horror of death! Doubtless the
human face is the grandest of all mysteries; yet fix ed on
canvass, it can hardly tell of more than one sensation; no
struggle, no successive contrasts accessible to dramatic art,
can painting give, as neither time nor motion ex ists for her.
" R acine' s Phedra forms the fourth picture. H ippolitus,
in all the beauty of youth and innocence, repulses the per-
fidious accusations of his stepmother. The heroic The-
seus still protects his guilty wife, whom his conq uering
arms surround. Phedra'
that we freeze to look
courages her in guilt. H
s visage is agitated by impulses
on; and her remorseless nurse en-
ippolitus is here even more lovely
than in R acine; more lik e to Meleager, as no love for
A ricia here seems to mingle with his tameless virtue.
* Madame de S taet B ays, " Macbeth apprend q ue l' oracle des sorcieres s' est
accompli; q ue le foret dc B irnam parait s' avancer vers Dunsinnane; et q u' il
se bat avec un homme ni depuis la mort de sa mere. "
* * L udicrous perversion of the author' s meaning! " The points S huk speare
intended to impress were, that" the wierd women," " j uggling fiends, who palter
with us in a double sense," had promised their victim success and lite till events
which he naturally conceived impossible, but which they k new wnUd occur.
L 2,?
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silence, yet contrived to vary the hours by reading, music,
and sometimes by a sportive dialogue, in which she sus-
tained both parts; -- serious or gay, it was for his sak
she supported herself, veiling beneath a thousand graceful
arts the solicitude which consumed her; she was never
e that
off her guard for an instant. S he perceived what O swald
suffered, almost before himself: the courage he assumed
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 133
deceived her not: she did, indeed, " anticipate the ask ing
eye," while her chief endeavour was that of diverting his
mind, as much as possible, from the value of these tender
offices. I f he turned pale, the rose fled from her lip, and
her hand trembled as she brought him a restorative:
even then would she smile through her tears, and press his
hand to her heart, as if she would fain have added her
stock of life to his. A t last her efforts succeeded: he reco-
vered. " Corinne," he said, as soon as permitted to speak
" why has not my friend E dgarmond witnessed your con-
duct? he would have seen that you are not less good than
great; that domestic life with you would be a perpetual
enchantment; that you differ from our women only in
adding charms to virtue. I t is too much! here ends the
combat that so nearly reduced me to the grave. Corinne!
you, who conceal your own secrets, shall hear all mine, and
pronounce our doom. " -- " O ur doom," she replied, "
you feel as I do, is-- not to part; yet believe me, till now,
at least, I have never dared to wish myself your wife : the
scheme of my ex istence is entirely disordered by the love
that every day enslaves me more and more; yet I k now
,
if
not if we ought to marry. " -- " Corinne," he cried, " do
you despise me for having hesitated? Can you attribute
my delay to contemptible motives? H ave you not guessed
that the deep remorse to which I have been for two years
apreyalonehasbeenthecause? " -- " I k nowit," she
answered. " H ad I suspected you of considerations foreign
to those of the heart, you would not have been dear to me.
B ut life, I k now, belongs not all to love; habit and me-
mory weave such nets around us that even passion cannot
q uite destroy; brok en for a moment, they will grow again,
as the ivy clasps the oak . - My dear O swald! let us give
no epoch of life more than it req uires. A t this, it is essential
to me that you leave me not. The dread of a sudden se-
paration incessantly pursues me. Y ou are a stranger here;
no ties detain you: if once you go, all is over; nothing will
be left to me of you, but my own grief. N ature, the arts,
poetry, all that I have shared with you, lately, alas! with
you alone, will speak no longer to my soul! I never wak e
without trembling. I ask the fair day if it has still a right
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? 134CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
to shine; if you, the sun of my being, are near me yet?
O swald, remove this fear, and I will not look beyond the
present' s sweet security. " -- " Y ou k now," replied he, " that
no E nglishman should renounce his country: war may
recall me. " -- " O h God! "
pare my mind? " H er limbs q
of the most terrific danger. " I
she cried, " would you pre-
uivered, as if at the approach
" tak e me with you-- asyourwife-- yourslave!
denly regaining her spirits, she continued,-- " O
will never depart without warning me? N ever!
L isten! in no country is a criminal led to torture without
being allowed some hours to collect his thoughts. I t must
not be by letter: you will come yourself, to tell me -- to
hear me-- ere you fly? H ow! you hesitate to grant my
prayer? " -- " N o," returnedhe," youwishit; andI
swear, if my departure be necessary, I will apprise you
of it, and that moment shall decide our fate. " S he left
him.
CH A PTE R I I .
Corinne now carefully avoided all ex planations. S he
wished to render her lover' s life as calm as possible.
Their every interview had tended to convince her that the
disclosure of what she had been, and sacrificed, was but too
lik ely to mak e an unfavourable impression; she, therefore,
sought again to interest him in the still unseen wonders of
R ome, and thus retard the instant that must clear all doubts.
S uch a situation would be insupportable beneath any other
feeling than love, which sheds such spells over every mi-
nute, that, though still desiring some indefinite futurity, we
receive a day as a century of j oy, and pain, so full of sen-
sations and ideas, is each succeeding morrow. L ove is
the emblem of eternity: it confounds all notion of time;
effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end: we
fancy that we have always possessed what we love, so dif-
ficult is it to imagine how we could have lived without it.
The more terrible separation seems the less probable it
f it be even so,"
she added,
" Thensud-
swald, you
will you?
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 135
becomes: lik e death, it is an evil we rather name than
believe, as if the inevitable were impossible. Corinne,
who, in her innocent artifices for varying O swald' s amuse-
ments, had hitherto reserved the statues and paintings, now
proposed tak ing him to see them, as his health was suf-
ficiently re-established. -- " I t is shameful," she said, with
a smile, " that you should be still so ignorant; therefore
to-morrow we will commence our tour through the galle-
ries and museums. " -- " A s you will," replied N evil;
" but, indeed, Corinne, you want not the aid of such re-
sources to k eep me with you; on the contrary, I mak e a
sacrifice to obey you, in turning my gaze to any other
obj ect, be it what it may. "
They went first to the V atican, that palace of sculpture,
where the human form shines deified by paganism, as are
the virtues by Christianity. I n those silent halls are
assembled gods and heroes; while beauty, in eternal sleep,
look s as if dreaming of herself were the sole pleasure she
req uired. A s we contemplate these admirable forms and
features, the design of theTDivinity, in creating man, seems
revealed by the noble person he has deigned to bestow on
him. The soul is elevated by hopes full of chaste enthu-
siasm; for beauty is a portion of the universe, which, be-
neath whatever guise presented, awak es religion in the
heart of man. W hat poetry invests a face where the most
sublime ex pression is fix ed for ever, where the grandest
thoughts are enshrined in images so worthy of them!
S ometimes an ancient sculptor completed but one statue in
his life; that constituted his history. H e daily added to
its perfection: if he loved or was beloved; if he derived
fresh ideas from art or nature, they served but to embellish
the features of this idol. H e translated into look s all the
feelings of his soul. Grief, in the present state of society
so cold and oppressive, then actually ennobled its victim;
indeed to this day the being who has not suffered can
never have thought or felt. B ut the ancients dignified
grief by heroic composure, a sense of their own strength,
developed by their public freedom. The loveliest Grecian
statues were mostly ex pressive of repose. The L aocoon and
the N iobe are among the few stamped by sorrow; but it
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? 136 C0R 1N N E J O R I TA L Y .
is the vengeance of heaven and not human passion that they
both recall. The moral being was so well organised of old,
the air circulated so freely in those manly chests, and po-
litical order so harmonised with such faculties, that those
' times scarce ever, lik e our own, produced discontented men.
S ubtle as were the ideas then discovered, the arts were fur-
nished with none but those primitive affections which alone
can be typified by eternal marble. H ardly can a trace of
melancholy be found on their statues. A head of A pollo,
in the J ustinian palace, and one of the dying A lex ander,
indeed, betray both thoughtfulness and pain; but they
belonged to the period of Grecian slavery, which banished
the tranq uil pride that usually pervaded both their sculp-
ture and their poetry. Thought, unfed from without, preys
on itself, digging up and analysing its own treasures; but
it has not the creative power which happiness alone can
give. E ven the antiq ue sarcophagii of the V atican teem
but with martial or j oyous images: the commemoration
of an active life they thought the best homage they could
pay the dead -- nothing weak ened or discouraged the
living. E mulation was the reigning principle in art as in
policy: there was room for all the virtues, as for all the
talents. The vulgar prided in the ability to admire, and
genius was worshipped even by those who could not aspire
to its palm. Grecian religion was not, lik e Christianity,
the solace of misery, the wealth of the poor, the future of
the dying: it req uired glory and triumph; it formed the
apotheosis of man. I n this perishable creed even beauty
was a dogma: artists, called on to represent base or fero-
cious passions, shielded the human form from degradation,
by blending it with the animal, as in the satyrs and cen-
taurs. O n the contrary, when seek ing to realise an un-
usual sublimity, they united the charms of both sex es; as
in the warlik e Minerva, and the A pollo Musagetes; feli-
citous propinq uity of vigour and sweetness, without which
neither q uality can attain perfection! Corinne delayed
O swald some time before the sleeping figures that adorn
the tombs, in the manner most favourable to their art. S he
observed that statues representing an action suspended at
its height, an impulse suddenly check ed, create, sometimes.
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 137
a painful astonishment; but an attitude of complete repose
offers an image that thoroughly accords with the influence
of southern sk ies. The arts there seem but the peaceful
spectators of nature; and genius itself, which agitates a
northern breast, there appears but one harmony the more.
O swald and Corinne entered the court in which the sculp-
tured animals are assembled, with the statue of Tiberius in
the midst of them: this arrangement was made without
premeditation; the creatures seem to have ranged them-
selves around their master. A nother such hall contains
the gloomy work s of the E gyptians, resembling mummies
more than men. This people, as much as possible, assimi-
lated life with death, and lent no animation to their human
effigies: that province of art appeared to them inaccessible.
A bout the porticoes of this museum each step presents
new wonders: vases, altars, ornaments of all k inds, sur-
round the A pollo, the L aocoon, and the Muses. H ere may
one learn to appreciate H omer and S ophocles, attaining a
k nowledge of antiq uity that cannot be elsewhere acq uired.
A mid these porticoes are fountains, whose incessant flow
gently reminds you of past hours: it is two thousand
years since the artists of these chefs-d' amvre ex isted. B ut
the most melancholy sights here are the brok en statues, the
torso of H ercules, heads separated from their trunk s; the
foot of a J upiter, which it is supposed must have belonged
to the largest and most symmetrical statue ever k nown.
O ne sees the battle-field whereon Time contended with
Glory; these mutilated limbs attesting the tyrant' s victory,
and our own losses. A fter leaving the V atican, Corinne
led O swald to the colossal figures on Monte Cavallo, said
to be those of Castor and Pollux . E ach of these heroes
govern a foaming steed with one hand: this struggle of
man with brute, lik e all the work s of the ancients, finely
ex emplifying the physical powers of human nature, which
had then a dignity it no longer possesses. B odily ex ercises
are generally abandoned to our common people: personal
vigour, in the antiq ue, appeared so intimately connected
with the moral q ualities of those who lived in the heart of
war, a war of single combats, that generosity, fierceness,
command, and height of stature, seemed inseparable, ere
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? 138 corinne; on italy.
intellectual religion had throned man' s potency in his soul.
A s the gods wore our shape, every attribute appears sym-
bolical: the " brawns of H ercules" suggest no recollections
of vulgar life, but of divine, almighty will, clothed in super-
natural grandeur.
Corinne and O swald finished their day by visiting the
studio of the great Canova. The statues gained much from
being seen by torchlight, as the ancients must have thought,
who placed them in their Thermes, inaccessible to the day.
A deeper shade thus softens the brilliant uniformity of the
marble: its pallor look s more lik e that of life. A t that
time Canova had j ust achieved an ex q uisite figure, intended
i for a tomb; it represented Grief leaning on a L ion. Co-
rinne detected a resemblance to N evil, with which the
artist himself was struck
his head, to avoid this k
beloved, " Corinne, I
. O ur E nglishman turned away
ind of attention, whispering to his
believed myself condemned to this
eternal grief ere I met you, who have so changed me, that
sometimes hope, and always a delicious agitation, pervades
the heart that ought to be devoted to regret. "
CH A PTE R I I I .
I n painting, the wealth of R ome surpasses that of the rest
of the world. O nly one point of discussion can ex ist on
the effect which her pictures produce -- does the nature of
the subj ects selected by I taly' s great masters admit the
varied originality of passion which painting can ex press?
The difference of opinion between O swald and Corinne on
this point, as on others, sprung but from the difference of
their countries and creeds. Corinne affirmed that S cripture
subj ects were those most favourable to the painter; that
sculpture was the Pagan' s art, and painting the Christian' s;
that Michael A ngelo, the painter of the O ld, and R aphael,
that of the N ew Testament, must have been gifted with
sensibility profound as that of S hak speare or R acine.
" S culpture," she said, " can present but a simple or ener-
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA I j . 139
getic life to the eye, while painting displays the mys-
teries of retirement and resignation, and mak es the im-
mortal spirit speak through the fleeting colours. H istorical
facts, or incidents drawn from the poets, are rarely pic-
turesq ue. O ne had need, in order to understand them,
to k eep up the custom of writing the speeches of their per-
sonages on ribands rolling from their mouths. B ut re.
ligious pieces are instantly comprehended by the whole
world; and our attention is not turned from the art in
order to divine their meaning.
" The generality of modern painters are too theatrical.
They bear the stamp of an age in which the unity of ex ist-
ence and natural way of life, familiar to A ndrew Mantegne,
Perugin, and L eonardo de V inci, is entirely forgotten.
To this antiq ue repose they were wont to add the depth of
feeling which mark s Christianity. F or this I admire the
compositions of R aphael, especially in his early work s.
A ll the figures tend towards the main obj ect, without
being elaborately grouped to create a sensation -- this ho-
nesty in the arts, as in all things else, characterises true
genius; for speculations on success usually destroy enthu- |
siasm. There is a rhetoric in painting as in poetry; and
those who have it not seek to veil the defect in brilliant
but illusive aux iliaries, rich costume, remark able postures,
while an unpretending virgin, with her infant at her
breast, an old man attending the mass of B olsena, a
young one leaning on his staff, in the school of A thens,
or S aint Cecilia raising her eyes to heaven, by the mere
force of ex pression, act most powerfully on the mind.
These natural beauties grow on us each day, while of
work s done for effect our first sight is always the most
B trik ing. " (2) Corinne fortified these reflections by another
-- it was the impossibility of our sympathising with the my-
thology of the Greek s and R omans, or inventing on their
ground. " W e may imitate them by study," she said;
" but the wings of genius cannot be restrained to flights
for which learning and memory are so indispensable, and
wherein it can but copy book s or statues. N ow in pic-
tures alluding to our own history and faith the painter is
personally inspired; feeling what he depicts, retracing
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? 140CO B I N N E ; O R I TA L T.
what he has seen, he draws from the life. Portraitures
of piety are mental blessings that no others could replace;
as they assure us that the artist' s genius was animated by
the holy zeal which alone can support us against the dis-
gusts of life and the inj ustice of man. "
O swald could not, in all respects, agree with her: he
was almost scandalised at seeing that Michael A ngelo had
attempted to represent the Deity himself in mortal shape;
he did not think that we should dare embody H im; and could
scarcely call up one thought sufficiendy ethereal thus to
ascend towards the S upreme B eing, though he felt that
images of this k ind, in painting, always leave us much to
desire. H e believed, with Corinne, that religious medita-
tion is the most heartfelt sentiment we can ex perience, and
that which supplies a painter with the grandest physiogno-
mical mysteries; but as religion represses all movements
of the heart to which she has not given birth, the faces of
saints and martyrs cannot be much varied. H umility, so
lovely in the sight of heaven, weak ens the energy of
earthly passion, and necessarily monotonises the generality
of scriptural subj ects. W hen the terrible A ngelo dealt
with them, he almost changed their spirit, giving to his
prophets that formidable air more suitable to heathen gods
than to saints. O ft, too, lik e Dante, he mix ed Pagan at-
tributes with those of Christianity. O ne of the most
affecting truths in its early establishment is the lowly
station of the apostles who preached it, the slavery of the
J ews, so long depositaries of the promise that announced
the S aviour. This contrast between insignificance of
means and greatness of result is morally beautiful. Y et,
in painting, where means alone can be displayed, Christian
subj ects must needs prove less attractive than those derived
from the times of heroic fable. O f all arts, none save
music can be purely religious. Painting cannot be content
with an ex pression indefinite as that of sound.
I t is true
that a happy combination of colours, and of clair-obscure,
is harmony to the eye; but as it shows us life, it should
give forth life' s strong and varied passions. Undoubtedly
such passages of history ought to be selected as are too
well k nown to be unintelligible: facts must flash on us
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 141
from canvass, for all the pleasures the fine arts bestow are
thus immediate; but with this eq uality provided, histori-
cal pictures have the advantage of diversified situation and
sentiments. N evil asserted, too, that a preference should
be given to scenes from tragedies, or the most touching
poetic fictions, so that all the pleasures of imagination
might thus unite. Corinne contended against this opinion,
seducing as it was; convinced that the encroachment of
one art upon another would be mutually inj urious. F or
sculpture loses by attempting the groups that belong to
painting, painting by aspiring to dramatic animation.
The arts are limited, not in their powers but in their
means. Genius seek s not to vanq uish the fitness of things
which its glory consists in guessing. " Y ou, my dear
O swald," said Corinne, " love not the arts for themselves,
but as they accord with your own feelings; you are moved
merely when they remind you of your heart' s afflictions.
Music and poetry better suit such a disposition than those
which speak to the eye, however ideally; they can but
please or interest us while our minds are calm and our
fancy is free. W e need not the gaiety which society con-
fers in order to enj oy them, but the composure born of
soft and radiant climes. W e ought, in the arts that re-
present ex terior obj ects, to feel the universal harmony of
nature, which, while we are distressed, we have not within'
ourselves. " -- " I k now not," answered O swald, " if I
have sought food for my sorrows in the arts, but at least I
am sure that I cannot endure their reminding me of
physical suffering. My strongest obj ection against S crip-
ture pictures is the pain I feel in look ing on blood and
tortures, however ex alted the faith of their victims. Phi-
loctetus is, perhaps, the only tragic subj ect in which such
agonies can be admitted; but with how much of poetry
are his cruel pangs invested! They are caused by the
darts of H ercules; and surely the son of E sculapius can
cure them. H is wounds are so associated with the moral
resentment they stir in that pierced breast, that they can
ex cite no symptom of disgust. B ut the Possessed in R a-
phael' s Transfiguration is disagreeable and undignified.
W e would fain discover the charm of grief, or fancy it
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? 142CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y .
lik e the melancholy of prosperity. I t is the ideal of human
fate that ought to appear. N othing is more revolting than
ensanguined gashes or muscular convulsions. I n such
pictures we at once miss and dread to find ex actitude of
imitation. W hat pleasure could such attempted fidelity
bestow? it is always either more horrible or less lovely
than nature herself. " -- " Y ou are right, my L ord," said
Corinne, " in wishing that these blots should be effaced from
Christian pictures; they are unnecessary. N evertheless,
allow that soul-felt genius can triumph over them alL
L ook on the death of S t. J erome by Dominichino; that
venerable frame is livid, emaciated; but life eternal fills
his aspect; and the miseries of the world are here collected
but to melt before the hallowed rays of devotion. Y et,
dear O swald, though I am not wholly of your mind, I
wish to show you that, even in differing, we have always
some analogy. I have attempted a realisation of your
ideal in the gallery to which my brothers in art have con.
tributed, and where I have sk etched a few designs my.
self: you shall see the advantages and defects of the styles
you prefer in my house at Tivoli. The weather is fine;
shall we go there to-morrow ?
doubt my reply? " he ex
blessing in the world but you?
" -- "
claimed. "
The life I
My love, can you
H ave I another
have too much
freed from other occupations is now filled by the felicity of
seeing and of hearing my Corinne! "
CH A PTE R I V .
O swald himself drove the four horses that drew them nex t
day towards Tivoli: he delighted in their rapid course,
which seemed to lend fresh vivacity to the sense of ex -
istence-- an impression so sweet when enj oyed beside those
we love. H e was careful, even to fear, lest the slightest
accident should befall his charge-- that protecting air is such
a link betwix t man and woman! Corinne, though less easily
alarmed than the rest of her sex , observed his solicitude
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 143
with such pleasure as made her almost wish she could he
frightened, that she might claim the re-assurances of O swald.
W hat gave him so great an ascendency over her was the
occasional unex pected contrasts with himself that lent a
peculiar charm to his whole manner. E very one admired his
mind and person; but both were particularly interesting
to a woman at once thus constant and versatile. Though
occupied by nothing but Corinne, this same interest per-
petually assumed a new character: sometimes reserve pre-
dominated; then he abandoned himself to his passion; .
anon he was perfectly amiable and content; as probably,
by a gloomy bitterness, betrayed the sincerity of his
distress. A gitated at heart, he strove to appear serene,
and left her to guess the secrets of his bosom. This k ept
her curiosity for ever on the alert. H is very faults set off
his merits; ' and no man, however agreeable, who was devoid
of these contradictions and inconsistences, could thus have
captivated Corinne: she was subdued by her fear of him.
H e reigned in her heart by a good and by an evil power--
by his own q ualities, and by the anx iety their ill-regulated
state inspired. There was no safety in the happiness he
bestowed. This, perhaps, accounts for the ex altation of
her love; she might not have thus adored aught she did
not fear to lose. A mind of ardent yet delicate sensibility
may weary of all save a being whose own, for ever in
motion, appears lik e a heaven, now clear and smiling, n< J w
lapped in threatening clouds. O swald, ever truly, deeply
attached, was not the less often on the brink of abj uring
the obj ect of his tenderness, because long habit had per-
suaded him that he could find nothing but remorse in the
too vivid feelings of his breast.
O n their way to Tivoli, they passed the ruins of A drian' s
palace, and the immense garden that surrounded it. H ere
were collected the rarest productions of the realms con-
q uered by R ome. There are still seen the scattered stones
called E gypt, I ndia, and A sia. F arther off is the retreat
where Z enobia ended her days. The q ueen of Palmyra
sustained not, in adversity, the greatness of her doom: she
k new neither how to die for glory, lik e a man, nor how,
lik e a woman, to die rather than betray her friend. A t
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? 144CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
last they beheld Tivoli, once the abode of B rutus, A u-
gustus, Maecenas, Catullus, but, above all, H orace, whose
verses have immortalised these scenes. Corinne' s villa stood
near the loud cascade of Teverone. O n the top of the
hill, facing her garden, was the S ibyl' s temple. The
ancients, by building these fanes on heights lik e this, sug-
gested the due superiority of religion over all other pursuits.
They bid you " look from nature up to nature' s God,"
and tell of the gratitude that successive generations have
paid to heaven. The landscape, seen from whatever point,
includes this its central ornament. S uch ruins remind one
not of the work of man. They harmonise with the fair
trees and lonely torrent, that emblem of the years which
have made them what they are. The most beauteous land
that awok e no memory of great events were uninteresting,
compared with every spot that history sanctifies. W hat
place could more appropriately have been selected as the
home of Corinne than that consecrated to the S ibyl, a
woman divinely inspired? The house was charming;
deck ed in all the elegance of modern taste, yet evidently
by a classic hand. Y ou saw that its mistress understood
felicity in its highest signification; that which implies all
that can ennoble, while it ex cites our minds. A sighing
melody now stole on O swald' s ear, as if the nodding
flowers and waving shrubs thus lent a voice to nature.
Corinne informed him that it proceeded from the E olian
harps, which she had hung in her grottoes, adding music
to the perfume of the air. H er lover was entranced.
" Corinne," he cried, throwing himself at her feet, " till
to-day I have censured mine own bliss beside thee; but
now I feel as if the prayers of mine offended parent had
won me all this favour; the chaste repose I here enj oy
tells me that I am pardoned. F earlessly, then, unite thy
fate with mine: there is no danger now ! " -- "
W ell," she
replied, " let us not disturb this peace by naming F ate.
W hy strive to gain more than she ever grants? W hy
seek for change while we are happy? " H e was hurt by
this reply. H e thought she should have understood his
readiness to confide, to promise, all. This evasion, then,
offended and afflicted him: he appreciated not the delicacy
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 145
which forbade Corinne to profit by his weak ness. W here
we really love, we often dread more than we desire the
solemn moment that ex changes hope for certainty. O swald,
however, concluded that, much as she loved him, she
preferred her independence, and therefore shunned an in-
dissoluble tie. I rritated by this mistak e, he followed her
to the gallery in frigid silence. S he guessed his mood,
but k new his pride too well to tell him so; yet, with a
vague design of soothing him, she lent even to general and
indifferent topics the softest tones of affection.
H er gallery was composed of historical, poetic, re-
ligious subj ects, and landscapes. N one of them contained
any great number of figures. Crowded pictures are,
doubtless, arduous task s; but their beauties are mostly
either too confused or too detailed. Unity of interest,
that vital principle of art, as of all things, is necessarily
frittered away. The first picture represented B rutus,
sitting lost in thought, at the foot of the statue of R ome,
while slaves bore by the dead bodies of the sons he had
condemned; on the other side, their mother and sisters
stood in frantic despair, fortunately ex cused, by their sex ,
from that courage which sacrifices the affections. The
situation of B rutus, beneath the statue of R ome, tells all.
B ut how, without ex planation, can we k now that this is
B rutus, or that those are his children, whom he himself
has sentenced? and yet the event cannot be better set
forth by any painting. R ome fills its back -ground, as yet
unornamented as a city, grand only as the country that
could inspire such heroism. " O nce hear the name," said
Corinne, " and doubtless your whole soul is given up to it;
otherwise might not uncertainty have converted a pleasure
which ought to be so plain and so easy into an abstruse
enigma? I chose the subj ect, as recalling the most ter-
rible deed a patriot ever dared. The nex t is Marius, tak en
by one of the Cimbri, who cannot resolve to k ill so great a
man. Marius,indeed, is an imposing figure; the costume and
physiognomy of the Cimbri leader ex tremely picturesq ue:
it mark s the second era of R ome, when laws were no more,
but when genius still ex erted a vast control. N ex t come
the days in which glory led but to misfortune and insult.
L
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? 14-6 CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y .
The third picture is B elisarius, bearing his young guide,
who had ex pired while ask ing alms for him: thus is the
hlind hero recompensed by his master; and in the world he
vanq uished hath no better office than that of carrying to
the grave the sad remains of yon poor boy, his only faith-
ful friend. S ince the old school, I have seen no truer
figure than that: the painter, lik e the poet, has loaded him
with all k inds of miseries -- too many, it may be, for com-
passion. B ut what tells us that it is B elisarius? what
fidelity to history is ex acted both of artist and spectator!
a fidelity, by the way, often ruinous to the beautiful. I n
B nltus we look on virtues that resemble crime; in Marius,
on fame causing but distress; in B elisarius, on services
req uited by the black est persecution. N ear these I have
hung two pictures that console the oppressed spirit by
reminding it of the piety that can cheer the brok en
heart, when all around is bondage. The first is A l-
bano' s infant Christ asleep on a cross. Does not that
stainless, smiling face convince us that heavenly faith
hath nought to fear from grief or death? The following
one is Titian' s J esus bending under the weight of the
cross. H is mother on her k nees before him: what a
proof of reverence for the undeserved oppressions suf-
fered by her Divine S on! W hat a look of resignation is
his! yet what an air of pain, and therefore sympathy, with
us! That is the best of all my pictures; to that I turn
my eyes with rapture inex haustible; and now come my
dramatic chefs-d' oeuvre, drawn from the work s of four
great poets. There is the meeting of Dido and iE neas in
the E lysian fields: her indignant shade avoids him; re-
j oicing to be freed from the fond heart which yet would
throb at his approach. The vaporous colour of the phan-
toms, and the pale scenes around them, contrast the air of
life in iE neas, and the S ibyl who conducts him; but in
these attempts the bard' s description must far transcend
all that the pencil reaches: in this of the dying Clorinda
our tears are claimed by the remembered lines of Tasso,
where she pardons the beloved Tancred, who has j ust dealt
her the mortal wound. ' Painting inevitably sink s beneath
poetry, when devoted to themes that great authors have
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? CO B I N N B J O B I TA L Y . 147
already treated. O ne glance back at their words effaces all
before us. Their favourite situations gain force from im-
passioned eloq uence; while picturesq ue effect is most fa-
voured by moments of repose, worthy to be indefinitely
prolonged, and too perfect for the eye ever to weary of
their grace. Y our terrific S hak speare, my L ord, afforded
the ensuing subj ect. The invincible Macbeth, about to
fight Macduff, learns that the witches have eq uivocated
with him; that B irnam wood is coming to Dunsinnane,
and that his adversary was not of woman born, but ' un-
timely ripped' from his dying mother. * Macbeth is sub-
dued by his fate, not by his foe; his desperate hand still
grasps its glaive, certain that he must fall, yet to the last
opposing human strength against the might of demons.
There is a world of fury and of troubled energy in that
countenance: but how many of the poet' s beauties do we
lose? Can we paint Macbeth hurried into crime by the
dreams of ambition, conj ured up by the powers of sorcery?
H ow ex press a terror compatible with intrepidity; how
characterise the superstition that oppresses him? the
ignoble credulity, which, even while he feels such scorn of
life, forces on him such horror of death! Doubtless the
human face is the grandest of all mysteries; yet fix ed on
canvass, it can hardly tell of more than one sensation; no
struggle, no successive contrasts accessible to dramatic art,
can painting give, as neither time nor motion ex ists for her.
" R acine' s Phedra forms the fourth picture. H ippolitus,
in all the beauty of youth and innocence, repulses the per-
fidious accusations of his stepmother. The heroic The-
seus still protects his guilty wife, whom his conq uering
arms surround. Phedra'
that we freeze to look
courages her in guilt. H
s visage is agitated by impulses
on; and her remorseless nurse en-
ippolitus is here even more lovely
than in R acine; more lik e to Meleager, as no love for
A ricia here seems to mingle with his tameless virtue.
* Madame de S taet B ays, " Macbeth apprend q ue l' oracle des sorcieres s' est
accompli; q ue le foret dc B irnam parait s' avancer vers Dunsinnane; et q u' il
se bat avec un homme ni depuis la mort de sa mere. "
* * L udicrous perversion of the author' s meaning! " The points S huk speare
intended to impress were, that" the wierd women," " j uggling fiends, who palter
with us in a double sense," had promised their victim success and lite till events
which he naturally conceived impossible, but which they k new wnUd occur.
L 2,?
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