CHAPTER VI.

Since Lord Nevil had been in Italy, he had not spoken a word of the language; it even made him ill to hear it. On the evening of his arrival at Milan, he heard a tap at the door, which was followed by the entrance of a man, whose dark and prominent face would have been expressive, if animated by natural enthusiasm: it wore an unvaryingly gracious smile, and a look that strove to be poetical. He stood at the door, improvising verses in praise of the group before him, but such as might have suited any other husband, wife, or child, just as truly; and so exaggerated, that the speaker seemed to think poetry _ought_ to have no connection with truth. Oswald perceived that he was a Roman; yet, harmonious as were the sounds he uttered, the vehemence of his declamation served but to indicate more plainly the unmeaning insipidity of all he said. Nothing could be more painful for Oswald than to hear the Roman tongue thus spoken, for the first time after so long an interval; to see his dearest memories travestied, and feel his melancholy renewed by an object so ridiculous. Lucy guessed all this, and would have dismissed the improvisatore; but it was impossible to make him hear her: he paced the chamber all gesture and exclamation, heedless of the disgust he dealt his hearers, proceeding like a machine that could not stop till after a certain moment. At last that time arrived and Lucy paid him to depart. "Poetic language," said Oswald, "is so easily parodied here, that it ought to be forbidden all save those who are worthy to employ it."--"True," observed Lucy, perhaps a little too pointedly: "it is very disagreeable to be reminded of what you admire, by such a burlesque as we have just endured."--"Not so," he answered; "the contrast only makes me more deeply feel the power of genius. This same language, which may be so miserably degraded, became celestial poetry from the lips of Corinne--_your sister_." Lucy felt overwhelmed; he had not pronounced that _name_ to her before; the addition of _your sister_ sounded as if conveying a reproach. She was half suffocated; and had she given way to her tears, this moment might have proved the sweetest in her life; but she restrained them, and the embarrassment between herself and husband became more painful than before. On the next day the sun broke forth, like an exile returning to his own land. The Nevils availed themselves of his brightness to visit Milan cathedral, the _chef-d'œuvre_ of Gothic architecture: it is built in the form of a cross--fair, melancholy image in the midst of wealth. Lofty as it is, the ornaments are elaborate as those lavished on some minute object of admiration. What time and patience must it have cost! This perseverance towards the same aim is transmitted from age to age, and the human race, stable at least in thought, can leave us proofs of this, imperishable almost as thought itself. A Gothic building engenders true religion: it has been said that the popes have consecrated more wealth to the building of modern temples than devotion to the memory of old churches. The light, falling through colored glass, the singular forms of the architecture, unite to give a silent image of that infinite mystery which the soul forever feels, and never comprehends.

Lord and Lady Nevil left Milan when the earth was covered with snow. This is a sadder sight in Italy than elsewhere, because it is unusual: the natives lament bad weather as a public calamity. Oswald was vain of his favorite country, and angry that it would not smile its best for Lucy. They passed through Placenta, Parma, and Modena. The churches and palaces of each are too vast, in proportion to the number and fortune of the inhabitants: all seems arranged for the reception of the great, who as yet have but sent some of their retinue forward. On the morning of their reaching Taro, the floods were thundering from the Alps and Apennines, with such frightful rapidity, that their roar scarce announced them ere they came. Bridges are hardly practicable over rivers that so often rise above the level of the plain. Oswald and Lucy found their course suddenly checked. All boats had been washed away by the current; and they were obliged to wait till the Italians, who never hurry themselves, chose to bring them back. The fog confounded the water with the sky; and the whole spectacle rather resembled the descriptions of Styx than the bounteous streams lent as refreshments to the burning south. Lucy, trembling lest the intense cold should hurt her child, bore it into a fisher's hut, in the centre of which a fire had been kindled, as is done in Russia.

"Where is your lovely Italy?" she asked Oswald, with a smile. "I know not when I shall regain her," he answered sadly. Approaching Parma, and all the cities on that road, they perceived from afar the flat-terraced roofs that give Italy so original an air. Churches and spires stand forth boldly amid these buildings; and, after seeing them, the northern-pointed roofs, so constructed to permit the snow to run off, create a very unpleasant sensation. Parma still preserves some fine pictures by Correggio. Oswald took Lucy to a church which, boasts a _fresco_ of his _La Madonna della Scala_: while he drew the curtain from before it, Lucy raised Juliet in her arms, that she might better see the picture; and by chance their attitude was nearly the same with that of the Virgin and Child. Lucy had so much of the modest grace which Correggio loved to paint, that Oswald looked from the ideal to the real with surprise. As she noticed this her lids declined, and the resemblance became still more strong. Correggio is, perhaps, the only painter who knew how to give downcast eyes an expression affecting as that of those raised to heaven. The veil he throws over such looks, far from decreasing their thoughtful tenderness, lends it the added charm of heavenly mystery. The Madonna is almost detached from the wall. A breath might blow its hues away; this fear gives it a melancholy interest: its adorers oft return to bid such fleeting beauty a fond farewell. As they left the church, Oswald said to Lucy, "A little while, and that picture will be no more! but its model is mine own forever." These soft words touched her heart: she pressed his hand, about to ask him if he could not trust her tenderness; but as when he spoke coldly her pride forbade complaint, so when his language made her blest, she dreaded to disturb that moment's peace, in an attempt to render it more durable. Thus always she found reasons for her silence, hoping that time, resignation, and gentleness, might bring at last the happy day which would disperse her apprehensions.