CHAPTER III.

"I might have passed my life in this deplorable situation had I not lost my father. A sudden accident deprived me of my protector, my friend--the only being who had understood me in that peopled desert. My despair was uncontrollable. I found myself without one support. I had no relation save my step-mother, with whom I was no more intimate now than on the day I met her first. She soon renewed the suit of Mr. Maclinson; and though she had no authority to command my marrying him, received no one else at her house, and plainly told me that she should countenance no other match. Not that she much loved her kinsman; but she thought me presumptuous in refusing him, and made his case her own, rather for the defence of mediocrity than from family pride. Every day my state grew more odious. I felt myself attacked by that home-sick yearning which renders exile more terrible than death. Imagination is displeased by each surrounding object--the country, climate, language, and customs: life as a whole, life in detail, each moment, each circumstance, has its sting; for one's own land inspires a thousand pleasures that we guess not till they are lost.

---- "'la favella, i ecstumi, L'aria, i tronchi, il terren, le mura, il sassi.'

"'Tongue, manners, air, trees, earth, walls, every stone.'

says Metastasio. It is, indeed, a grief no more to look upon the scenes of childhood: the charm of their memory renews our youth, yet sweetens the thought of death. The tomb and cradle there repose in the same shade; while the years spent beneath stranger skies seem like branches without roots. The generation which preceded yours remembers not your birth; it is not the generation of _your_ sires: a host of mutual interests exist between you and your countrymen, which cannot be understood by foreigners, to whom you must explain everything, instead of finding the initiated ease that bids your thoughts flow forth secure the moment you meet a compatriot. I could not remember without emotion, such amiable expressions as '_Cara, Carissima_.' I repeated them as I walked alone, in imitation of the kindly welcomes so contrasted with the greetings I now received. Every day I wandered into the fields. Of an evening, in Italy, I had been wont to hear rich music; but now the cawing of rooks alone resounded beneath the clouds. The fruits could scarcely ripen. I saw no vines: the languid flowers succeeded each other slowly; black pines covered the hills: an antique edifice, or even one fine picture, would have been a relief for which I should have sought thirty miles round in vain.[1] All was dull and sullen: the houses and their inhabitants served but to rob solitude of its poetic horrors. There was enough of commerce and of agriculture near for them to say: 'You ought to be content, you want for nothing.' Stupid, superficial judgment! The hearth of happiness or suffering is in our own breast's secret sanctuary. 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. This project so inebriated me with joy, that, at first, I could anticipate no objections; yet, as my feverish hope subsided, I feared to take an irreparable resolve, and thought on what my acquaintance might say, to a plan which, from appearing perfectly easy, now seemed utterly impracticable; yet the image of a life in the midst of antiquities and arts was detailed before my mind's eye with so many charms, that I felt a fresh disgust at my tiresome existence. My talent, which I had feared to lose, had increased by my constant study of English literature. The depth of thought and feeling which characterizes your poets had strengthened my mind without impairing my fancy. I therefore possessed the advantages of a double education and twofold nationalities. I remembered the approbation paid by a few good critics in Florence to my first poetical essays, and prided in the added success I might obtain; in sooth, I had great hopes of myself. And is not such the first, the noblest illusion of youth? Methought that I should be mistress of the universe, the moment I escaped the withering breath of vulgar malice; but when I thought of flying in secret, I felt awed by that opinion which swayed me much more in England than in Italy; for though I could not like the town where I resided, I respected, as a whole, the country of which it was a part. If my step-mother had deigned to take me to London or Edinburgh, if she had thought of marrying me to a man of mind, I should never have renounced my name, even for the sake of returning to my own country. In fact, severe as she was, I never could have found the strength to alter my destiny, but for a multitude of circumstances which conspired to terminate my uncertainty. Thérésina is a Tuscan, and, though uneducated, she converses in those noble and melodious phrases that lend such grace to the discourse of our people. She was the only person with whom I spoke my own language; and this tie attached me to her. I often found her sad, and dared not ask why, not doubting that she, like myself, regretted our country. I knew that I should have been unable to restrain my own feelings, if excited by those of another. There are griefs that are ameliorated by communication; but imaginary ills augment if confined, above all, to a fellow-sufferer. A woe so sanctioned we no longer strive to combat. My poor Thérésina suddenly became seriously ill; and hearing her groan night and day, I determined to inquire the cause. Alas, she described exactly what I had felt myself. She had not reflected on the source of her pangs, and attached more importance to local circumstances and particular persons; but the sadness of the country, the insipidity of the town, the coldness of its natives, the constraint of their habits--she felt as I did, and cried incessantly: 'Oh, my native land! shall I never see you more?' yet added, that she would not leave me, in heart-breaking tones, unable to reconcile her love for me with her attachment to our fair skies and mother tongue. Nothing more affected my spirits than this reflex of my own feelings in a common mind, but one that had preserved the Italian taste and character in all its natural vivacity. I promised her that she should see her home again. 'With you?' she asked. I was silent: then she tore her hair, again declaring that she could never leave me, though looking ready to expire before my eyes as she said so. At last a promise that I would return with her escaped me; and though spoken but to soothe her, the joyous faith she gave it rendered it solemnly binding. From that day she cultivated the intimacy of some traders in the town, and punctually informed me when any vessel sailed from the neighboring port for Genoa or Leghorn. I heard her, but said nothing: she imitated my silence; but her eyes filled with tears. My health suffered daily from the climate and anxiety. My mind requires gayety. I have often told you that grief would kill me. I struggle against it too much: to live beneath sorrow one must yield to it. I frequently returned to the idea which had so occupied me since my father's death; but I loved Lucy dearly; she was now nine years old; for six had I watched over her like a second mother. I thought, too, that, if I departed privately, I should injure my own reputation, and that the name of my sister might thus be sullied. This apprehension, for the time, banished all my schemes. One evening, however, when I was more than usually depressed, I found myself alone with Lady Edgarmond; and, after an hour's silence, took so sudden a distaste towards her imperturbable frigidity, that I began the conversation by lamenting the life I led, rather to force her to speak, than to achieve any other result; but as I grew animated, I represented the possibility of my leaving England forever. My step-mother was not at all alarmed; but with a dry indifference, which I shall never forget, replied; 'You are of age, Miss Edgarmond; your fortune is your own; you are the mistress of your conduct; but if you take any step which would dishonor you in the eyes of the world, you owe it to your family to change your name, and be reported dead.' This heartless scorn inspired me with such indignation, that for a while a desire for vengeance, foreign to my nature, seized on my soul. That impulse left me; but the conviction that no one was interested in my welfare broke every link which, till then, had bound me to the house where I had seen my father. His wife certainly had never pleased me, save by her tenderness for Lucy. I believe that I must have conciliated her by the pains I had bestowed on her child; which, perhaps, rather excited her jealousy; for the more sacrifices she imposed on her other inclinations, the more passionately she indulged the sole affection she permitted herself. All that is quick and ardent in the human breast, mastered by her reason in her other connections, spoke from her countenance when anything concerned her daughter. At the height of my resentment, Thérésina came to me, in extreme emotion, with tidings that a ship had arrived from Leghorn, on board which were some traders whom she knew: 'the best people in the world,' she added, weeping; 'for they are all Italians, can speak nothing but Italian; in a week they sail again for Italy; and if madame is decided----'--'Return with them, my good Thérésina!' said I. 'No, madame; I would rather die here.' She left the room, and I mused over my duty to my step-mother. It was plain that she did not wish to have me with her; my influence over Lucy displeased her: she feared that the name I had gained there, as an extraordinary person, would, one day, interfere with the establishment of my sister: she had told me the secret of her heart, in desiring me to pass for dead; and this bitter advice, which had, at first, so shocked me, now appeared reasonable enough. 'Yes, doubtless I may pass for dead, where my existence is but a disturbed sleep,' said I. 'With nature, with the sun, the arts, I shall awaken, and the poor letters which compose my name, graven on an idle tomb, will fill my station here as well as I.' These mental leaps towards liberty gave me not yet sufficient power for a decided aim. There are moments when we trust the force of our own wishes; others, in which the habitual order of things assumes a right to overrule all the sentiments of the soul. I was in a state of indecision which might have lasted forever, as nothing obliged me to take an active part; but on the Sunday following my conversation with Lady Edgarmond, I heard, towards evening, beneath my window, some Italians singing: they belonged to the ship from Leghorn. Thérésina had brought them to give me this agreeable surprise. I cannot express what I felt: a torrent of tears deluged my cheeks. All my recollections were revived: nothing recalls the past like music: it does more than depict, it conjures it back, like some beloved shape, veiled in mysterious melancholy. The musicians sung the delicious verses composed by Monti in his exile:----

"'Bella Italia! amate sponde! Pur vi torno, a riveder, Trema in petto, e si confonde, L'alma oppressa dal piacer!'

"'Beauteous Italia! beloved ever! Shall I behold thy shore again? Trembling--bewildered--my bonds I sever-- Pleasure oppresses my heart and brain.'"

In a kind of delirium, I felt for Italy all love can make one feel--desire, enthusiasm, regret. I was no longer mistress of myself; my whole soul was drawn towards my country: I yearned to see it, hear it, taste its breath; each throb of my heart was a call to my own smiling land. Were life offered to the dead, they would not dash aside the stone that kept them in the tomb with more impatience than I felt to rush from all the gloom around me, and once more take possession of my fancy, my genius, and of nature. Yet, at that moment, my sensations were too confused for me to frame one settled idea. My step-mother entered my room, and begged that I would order them to cease singing, as it was scandalous on the Sabbath. I insisted that they were to embark on the morrow, and that it was six years since I had enjoyed such a pleasure. She would not hear me; but said that it behooved us, above all things, to respect the customs of the place in which we lived; then, from the window, bade her servants send my poor countrymen away. They departed, singing me, as they went, an adieu that pierced me to the heart. The measure of my temptation was full. Thérésina, at all hazards, had, unknown to me, made every preparation for my flight. Lucy had been away a week with a relative of her mother. The ashes of my father did not repose in the country-house we inhabited: he had ordered his tomb to be erected on his Scotch estate.[2] Enough: I set forth without warning my step-mother, but left a letter, apprising her of my plans. I started in one of those moments at which we give ourselves up to destiny, when anything appears preferable to servitude and insipidity; when youth inconsiderately trusts the future, and sees it, in the heavens, like a bright star that promises a happy lot.

[1] Corinne should have rather lamented that she was not permitted to explore the country which contains Alnwick, Hexham, Tynemouth, Holy Isle, and so many other scenes dear to the lovers of antiquity, the fine arts, history, and nature.--TR.

[2] Did the authoress think it usual for the English to be buried in their own grounds, whether consecrated or not?--TR.