CHAPTER II.

Oswald, since his misfortunes, had never regained sufficient courage voluntarily to hear music. He dreaded those ravishing sounds, so agreeable to melancholy, but which prove so truly injurious while we are weighed down by real calamities. Music revives the recollections it would appease. When Corinne sang, Oswald listened to the words she pronounced; gazed on her expressive features, and thought of nothing but her. Yet if, of an evening, in the streets, he heard many voices united to sing the sweet airs of celebrated composers, as is often the case in Italy, though inclined to pause, he soon withdrew, alarmed by the strong yet indefinite emotion which renewed his sorrows. But a concert was about to be given at the theatre of Rome, concentrating the talents of the first singers in Italy. Corinne asked Nevil to accompany her thither: he consented, hoping that her presence would soften all the pangs he must endure. On entering her box, she was immediately recognized; and a remembrance of her coronation, adding to the interest she usually created, all parts of the house resounded with applause, and cries of "_Viva Corinne!_" The musicians themselves, electrified by this unanimous sensation, sent forth strains of victory; for triumph, of whatever kind, awakens in our recollection "the pomp and circumstance of glorious war." Corinne was much moved by these testimonies of admiring affection. The indescribable impression always made by a human mass, simultaneously expressing the same sentiment, so deeply touched her heart, that she could not restrain her tears; her bosom heaved beneath her dress; and Oswald, with a sense of pique, whispered, "You must not, Madame, be torn from such success; it outvalues love, since it makes your heart beat thus;" he then retired to the back of the box, without waiting for her answer. In one instant had he swept away all the pleasure which she had owed to a reception prized most because he was its witness.

Those who have not heard Italian singing can form no idea of music. The human voice is soft and sweet as the flowers and skies. This charm was made but for such a clime: each reflect the other. The world is the work of a single thought, expressed in a thousand different ways. The Italians have ever devotedly loved music. Dante, in his Purgatory, meets the best singer of his day, and asks him for one of his delicious airs. The entranced spirits forget themselves as they hear it, until their guardian recalls them to the truth. The Christians, like the Pagans, believe the empire of music to extend beyond the grave: of all the fine arts, none act so immediately upon the soul: the others direct it towards such or such ideas: but this alone addresses the very source of life, and transforms the whole being at once, humanly speaking, as Divine Grace is said to change the heart. Among all our presentiments of futurity, those to which melody gives birth are not the least worthy of reverence. Even the mirth excited by buffo singing is not vulgar, but fanciful; beneath it lie poetic reveries, such as spoken wit never yet created. Music is so volatile a pleasure--we are so sensible that it escapes from us even as we enjoy it--that it always leaves a tender impression on the mind; yet, when expressive of grief, it sheds gentleness even over despair. The heart beats more quickly to its regular measure, and, reminding us of life's brevity, bids us enjoy what we can: the silent void is filled; you feel within yourself the active energies that fear no obstacle from without. Music doubles our computation of our own faculties, and makes us feel capable of the noblest efforts; teaches us to march towards death with enthusiasm, and is happily powerless to explain any base or artful sentiment. Music lifts from the breast the weight it so often feels beneath serious affections, and which we take for the heaviness of life, so habitual is its pressure: we hang on such pure sounds till we seem to discover the secrets of the Eternal, and penetrate the mysteries of nature: no words can explain this; for words but copy primitive sensations, as prose translators follow poetry. Looks alone resemble its effect: the long look of love, that gradually sinks into the breast, till one's eyes fall, unable to support so vast a bliss, lest this ray from another's soul should consume us.

The admirable union of two voices perfectly in tune produces an ecstasy that cannot be prolonged without pain: it is a blessing too great for humanity, which vibrates like an instrument broken beneath too perfect a harmony. Oswald had remained perversely apart from Corinne during the first act of the concert; but when the duets began in low voices, accompanied by the notes of clarionets and hautboys, purer even than their own, Corinne veiled her face, absorbed by emotion; she wept without suffering, and loved without dread; the image of Oswald was in her bosom; but a host of thoughts wandered too far to be distinct, even to herself. It is said that a prophet, in one moment, explored seven regions of heaven. Whoever can thus conceive the all which an instant may contain must have heard sweet music beside the object of his love. Oswald felt its power; his resentment decreased; the tenderness of Corinne explained and justified everything; he drew near her; she heard him breathing close by, at the most enchanting period of this celestial harmony: it was too much; the most pathetic tragedy could not have so overwhelmed her as did the sense of _their_ both being equally penetrated by the same sounds, at the same instant: each fresh tone exalted the consciousness. The words sung were nothing; now and then allusions to love and death induced some recollection; but oftener did music alone suggest and realize the formless wish, as doth some pure and tranquil star, wherein we seem to see the image of all we could desire on earth. "Let us go," sighed Corinne: "I feel fainting."--"What is it, love?" asked Oswald, anxiously: "you are pale. Come into the air with me." They went together: her strength returned, as she leaned upon his arm; and she faltered forth, "Dear Oswald, I am about to leave you for eight days."--"What say you?" he cried.--"Every year," she answered, "I spend Passion week in a convent, to prepare for Easter." Oswald could not oppose, aware that most of the Roman ladies devoted themselves to pious severities at that time, even if careless of religion during the rest of the year; but he remembered that Corinne's faith and his own were not the same: they could not pray together. "Why are you not my countrywoman?" he exclaimed. "Our souls have but one country," she replied.--"True," he said; "yet I cannot the less feel everything that divides us." And this coming absence so dismayed him, that neither to Corinne, nor the friends who now joined them, could he speak another word that evening.