CHAPTER V.

Corinne desired to bid Nevil and Italy such a farewell as might recall the days on which her genius shone with its full splendor. A pardonable weakness. Love and glory were ever blended in her mind; and, at that moment when her heart was about to resign all earthly ties, she wished Oswald to feel, once more, that it was the greatest woman of her day he had destroyed--the woman who best knew how to love and think--whose brilliant success he had obscured in misery and death.

She had no longer the strength required by an improvisatrice; but in solitude, since Oswald's return, had resumed her zest for writing poetry; she therefore named a day for assembling in one of the galleries all who desired to hear her verses, begging Lucy to bring her husband; adding, "I feel I may demand this of you now." Oswald was fearfully agitated, wondering what subject she had chosen, and whether she would recite herself: the bare possibility of looking on her threw him into extreme confusion. The morning came, and winter frowned on it with all the sternness of the north: the wind howled, the rain beat violently against the windows, and by an eccentricity more frequent in Italy than elsewhere, the thunder added a sense of dread to all this gloom. Oswald could not speak: everything around him increased the desolation of his soul. He entered the hall with Lucy: it was immensely crowded. In an obscure recess was placed a sofa, whereon Corinne was to recline, being too ill to read her own verses. Dreading to show herself, changed as she was, she had chosen those means of seeing Oswald unseen. As soon as she knew that he was there, she veiled her face, and was supported to this couch; from time to time staying to take breath, as if that short space had been a painful journey: the last steps of life are ever slow and difficult. Seating herself, her eyes sought Oswald, found him, and involuntarily starting up, she spread her arms; but instantly fell back, turning away her face, like Dido when she met Æneas in a world which human passions should not penetrate. Castel Forte detained Lord Nevil, who now, utterly beside himself, would have flown to fall at her feet: the Prince reminded him of the respect he owed Corinne before the world.[1]

A young girl, dressed in white, and crowned with flowers, now appeared on the stage which had been erected. Her meek and peaceful face touchingly contrasting the sentiments she was about to breathe; it was Corinne's taste, which thus mingled something sweet with thoughts in themselves too dreary. Music nobly and affecting prepared the auditors. The hapless Oswald could not tear his eyes from Corinne: she was to him as an apparition that haunts a night of fever: it was through his own deep sighs that he heard the death-song of the swan, which the woman he had so much wronged addressed to his heart.

THE LAST SONG OF CORINNE.

Take ye my solemn farewell! O, my friends, Already night is darkening on my eyes;-- But is not heaven most beautiful by night? Thousands of stars shine in the kindling sky, Which is an azure desert during day. Thus do the gathering of eternal shades Reveal innumerable thoughts, half lost In the full daylight of prosperity. But weaken'd is the voice which might instruct; The soul retires within itself, and seeks To gather round itself its failing fire.

From my first days of youth, my inward hope Was to do honor to the Roman name; That name at which the startled heart yet beats. Ye have allow'd me fame, O generous land! Ye banished not a woman from the shrine! Ye do not sacrifice immortal gifts To passing jealousies, Ye who still yield Applause to Genius in its daring flight; Victor without the vanquished--Conqueror, Yet without spoil;--who, from eternity, Draws riches for all time.

Nature and Life! with what deep confidence Ye did inspire me! I deem'd all grief arose For what we did not feel, or think enough: And that we might, even on this our earth, Beforehand taste that heavenly happiness, Which is--but length in our enthusiasm, But constancy in love.

No, I repent it not, this generous faith; No, that caused not the bitter tears I've shed, Watering the dust which doth await me now. I had accomplish'd all my destiny-- I had been worthy all the gifts of Heaven, If I had only vow'd my sounding lyre To celebrate that goodness all divine, Made manifest throughout the universe.

And thou, my God!--Oh, thou wilt not reject The offering of the mind; for poetry, Its homage is religious, and the wings Of thought but serve to draw more near to thee.

Religion has no limits, and no bonds;-- The vast, the infinite, and the eternal, Never from her may Genius separate. Imagination from its earliest flight, Past o'er the bounds of life: and the sublime Is the reflection of divinity.

Alas! my God, had I loved only thee;[2] If I had raised my head aloft in heaven-- From passionate affections shelter'd there, I had not now been crush'd before my time-- Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives, I only know it by my strength of grief: Under the features of an enemy I recognize it now.

Farewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own land! Farewell, remembrances of infancy, Farewell! Ah, what have ye to do with death? And ye who in my writings may have found Feelings, whose echo was within your soul, Oh, friends of mine--where'er ye be--farewell! Corinne has suffer'd much--but suffer'd not In an unworthy cause: she has not lost At least her claim on pity.

Beautiful Italy! it is in vain To promise me your loveliness; my heart Is worn and wasted; what can ye avail? "Would ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs! Would ye recall my happiness, and thus Make me revolt against my fate?

Meekly I do submit myself. Oh, ye Who may survive me--when the spring returns, Remember how I loved its loveliness! How oft I sung its perfume and its air. I pray you sometimes to recall a line From out my songs--my soul is written there: But fatal Muses, love and misery,

Taught my best poetry.

When the designs of mighty Providence Are work'd in us, internal music marks The coming of the angel of the grave: Nor fearful, nor yet terrible he spreads His white wings; and, though compass'd by night, A thousand omens tell of his approach.

If the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear His voice; and when night falls, the shadows round Seem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe. At noon, when life sees only the clear sky, Feels only the bright sun, the fated one Whom Death hath called, upon the distance marks The heavy shade is so soon to shroud All nature from their eyes.

Youth, hope, emotions of the heart--ye all Are now no more. Far from me--vain regrets; If I can yet obtain some falling tears, If I can yet believe myself beloved, It is because I am about to die. Could I recall my fleeting life--that life, Soon would it turn upon me all its stings.

And Rome! Rome, where my ashes will be borne! Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive, If, with a trembling step, I join the shades, The multitude of your illustrious dead! Forgive me for my pity of myself.[3] Feelings, and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance As might have yielded fruit--expire with me. Of all the powers of mind which nature gave, The power of suffering has been the sole one, Which I have used to its extent.

It matters not.--I do obey.--Whate'er May be the mighty mystery of death, That mystery at least must give repose. Ye do not answer me, ye silent tombs! Merciful God, thou dost not answer me! I made my choice on earth, and now my heart Has no asylum. Ye decide for me, And such a destiny is best. L. E. L.

Thus ended the last song of Corinne. The hall resounded with deep, sad murmurs of applause. Lord Nevil could not support the violence of his emotion, but fell senseless to the ground. Corinne, beholding him in this condition, would have flown to him, but her strength failed as she attempted to rise. She was borne home, and from that hour no hopes were entertained of saving her. Lucy hastened to her, so afflicted by her husband's grief, that she threw herself at her sister's feet, imploring her to admit him; but Corinne refused. "I forgive him," she said, "for having broken my heart. Men know not what they do; society persuades them that it is sport to fill a heart with rapture, and then consign it to despair; but God's free grace has given me back composure. The sight of Oswald would revive sensations that ill befit a death-bed. Religion only possesses the secret clue through this terrific labyrinth. I pardon the being I so loved," she continued, with a failing voice; "may he be happy with you! but when in his turn he is called on to die, then may he recollect the poor Corinne. She will watch over him, if Heaven permits; for those never cease to love, whose love has had the strength to cost them life."

Oswald stood at her door, sometimes about to enter, spite her prohibition, sometimes motionless with sorrow. Lucy passed from one to the other, like an angel of peace, between despair and death. One evening Corinne appeared more easy, and the parents went for a short time to their child, whom they had not seen for three days. During their absence the dying woman performed all the duties of religion; then said to the reverend man who received her last solemn confession: "Now, father, you know my fate. Judge me! I have never taken vengeance on my foes; the griefs of others never asked my sympathy in vain; my faults sprung but from passions not guilty in themselves, though human pride and weakness led them to excess and error. Think you, my father--you who have so much longer experience than I--that God will pardon me?"--"Yes, child, I hope so; is not your heart now wholly his?"--"I believe it, father; take away this portrait, it is Oswald's; lay on my breast the image of Him who descended to this life--not for the powerful, nor the inspired, but for the sufferer, the dying; they need his mercy." She then perceived Castel Forte, who wept beside her bed, and holding out her hand to him, exclaimed: "My friend! you only are beside me now. I lived for love; yet, but for you, should die alone." Her tears fell as she spoke, yet she added: "There is no help for such a moment; friends can but follow us to the brink; there begin thoughts too deep, too troubled, to be confided." She begged they would remove her to a sofa, whence she could gaze upon the sky. Lucy now came to her side; and the unhappy Oswald, following his wife, fell at the feet of Corinne, who would have spoken to him, but her voice failed: she raised her eyes to Heaven; the moon was covered with just such a cloud as they had seen on their way to Naples. Corinne pointed to it with a dying hand--one sigh--and that hand sank powerless.

Oswald fell into such distraction that Lucy trembled for his life. He followed the funeral pomp to Rome; then retired to Tivoli, where he remained long, without seeing even his wife and child. At last, duty and affection restored him to them; they returned to England. Lord Nevil's domestic life became most exemplary: but did he ever pardon his past conduct? Could the approving world console him? After the fate he had enjoyed, could he content himself with common life? I know not: nor will I, on that head, either absolve or condemn him.

[1] Not a word of what he owed his wife.--TR.

[2] "Had I but served my God with half the zeal," &c.--_Wolsey_. (SHAKSPEARE.)

[3] "J'a pitié de moi-même."--CORNEILLE.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Corinne; or, Italy, by Germaine, Madame de Staël