Chapter 28

Every thing was arranged in a few days, the parts distributed, and the evening chosen for the performance in a palace belonging to a female relation of Prince Castel-Forte, and a friend of Corinne. Oswald felt a mixture of uneasiness and pleasure, at the approach of this new scene of triumph for the talents of Corinne. He enjoyed the by anticipation; but he was also jealous in the same manner, not of any man in particular, but of that whole audience in general who were to witness the talents of her whom he loved. He wished to be the only witness of her mental charms;--he wished that Corinne, timid and reserved, like an English woman, should possess eloquence and genius for none but him. However distinguished a man may be, perhaps he never enjoys, without alloy, the superiority of a woman: if he feel an affection for her, his heart is disturbed;--if not, his self-love is wounded. Oswald, in the presence of Corinne, was more intoxicated than happy; and the admiration which she inspired him with, increased his love without giving more stability to his projects. He contemplated her as an admirable phenomenon, which appeared to him anew every day; but even the transport and astonishment which she made him feel, seemed to render the hope of a peaceful and tranquil life more distant. Corinne, however, was of the tenderest and most easy disposition in private life; her ordinary qualities would have made her beloved independently of her brilliant ones; but yet again, she united in herself too much talent, and was too dazzling in every respect. Lord Nelville, with all his accomplishments, did not believe himself equal to her, and this idea inspired him with fears as to the duration of their mutual affection. Vainly did Corinne by force of love become his slave; the master, often uneasy about his captive queen, did not enjoy his empire undisturbed.

Some hours before the representation, Lord Nelville conducted Corinne to the palace of Princess Castel-Forte, where the theatre was fitted up. The sun shone most brilliantly, and from one of the windows of the stair-case, Rome and the _Campagna_ were discovered. Oswald stopped Corinne a moment and said, "Behold this beautiful day, it is for your sake; it is to heighten the splendour of your fame." "Ah, if that were so," answered she, "it is you who would bring me happiness; it is to you that I should owe the protection of heaven." "Would the pure and gentle sentiments which the beauty of nature inspires, be sufficient to make you happy?" replied Oswald: "there is a great distance between the air that we breathe, the reverie which the country inspires, and that noisy theatre which is about to resound with your name." "Oswald," said Corinne, "if the applause which I am about to receive, have the power to affect me, will it not be because it is witnessed by you? And should I display any talent, will it not owe its success to you, who have animated and inspired it? Love, poetry, and religion, all that is born of enthusiasm, is in harmony with nature; and in beholding the azure sky, in yielding to the impression which it causes, I have a juster comprehension of the sentiments of Juliet, I am more worthy of Romeo." "Yes, thou art worthy of him, celestial creature!" cried Lord Nelville; "'tis only a weakness of the soul, this jealousy of thy talents, this desire to live alone with thee in the universe. Go, receive the meed of public homage, go; but let that look of love, still more divine than thy genius, be directed to me alone!" They then parted, and Lord Nelville went and took his seat in theatre, awaiting the pleasure of beholding the appearance of Corinne.

Romeo and Juliet is an Italian subject; the scene is placed in Verona, where is still to be seen the tomb of those two lovers. Shakespeare has written this piece with that Southern imagination at once impassioned and pleasing; that imagination which triumphs in happiness, but which, nevertheless, passes so easily from happiness to despair, and from despair to death. The impressions are rapid; but one easily feels that these rapid impressions will be ineffaceable. It is the force of nature, and not the frivolity of the heart, which beneath an energetic climate hastens the development of the passions. The soil is not light, though vegetation is prompt; and Shakespeare has seized, more happily than any other foreign writer, the national character of Italy and that fecundity of the mind which invents a thousand ways of varying the expression of the same sentiments--the oriental eloquence which makes use of all the images of nature to paint what is passing in the heart. It is not as in Ossian, one same tint, one uniform sound which responds constantly to the most sensitive chords of the heart; the multiplied colours that Shakespeare employs in Romeo and Juliet, do not give a cold affectation to his style; it is the ray divided, reflected, and varied, which produces these colours, in which we ever feel that fire they proceed from. There is a life and a brilliancy in this composition which characterise the country and the inhabitants. The play of Romeo and Juliet translated into Italian would only seem to return to its mother tongue.

The first appearance of Juliet is at a ball, where Romeo Montague has introduced himself into the house of the Capulets, the mortal enemies of his family. Corinne was dressed in a charming festive habit, conformable to the costume of the times. Her hair was tastefully adorned with precious stones and artificial flowers. Her friends did not know her on her first appearance, till her voice discovered her: her figure then became familiar to them; but it was in a manner deified, and preserved only a poetical expression. The theatre resounded with unanimous applause upon her appearance. Her first looks discovered Oswald, and rested upon him--a spark of joy, a lively and gentle hope, was painted in her countenance: on beholding her, every heart beat with pleasure and fear: it was felt that so much felicity could not last upon earth; was it for Juliet, or Corinne, that this presentiment was to be verified?

When Romeo approached to address to her in a low voice, the lines, so brilliant in English, so magnificent in the Italian translation, upon her grace and beauty, the spectators, charmed to hear their own sentiments so finely interpreted, joined in the transport of Romeo; and the sudden passion which the first look of Juliet kindled in his soul, appeared like reality to every eye. Oswald from this moment felt disturbed; it appeared to him that all was near to being revealed, that Corinne was about to be proclaimed an angel among women, that he should be forced to reveal his sentiments, that his claim would be disputed and the prize ravished from him--a kind of dazzling cloud seemed to pass before his eyes--he feared his sight might fail him--he was ready to faint, and retired for some moments behind a pillar. Corinne, uneasy, sought him with anxiety, and pronounced this line,

"Too early seen unknown, and known too late!"

with such a tone of voice, that Oswald started as he heard it, for it seemed to him to be applied to their personal situation.

He could never feel tired of admiring the grace of her actions, the dignity of her motions, and the expression of her countenance, in which was painted what language could not reveal, all those mysteries of the heart which cannot be reduced to words; but which, nevertheless, dispose of our life. The accent, the look, the least gesture of an actor, truly inspired and influenced by genuine emotion, are a continual revelation of the human heart; and the ideal of the fine arts is always mingled with these revelations of nature. The harmony of the verse and the charm of the attitudes, lend to passion that grace and dignity which it often wants in reality. Thus every sentiment of the heart, and every emotion of the soul, pass before the imagination without losing anything of their truth.

In the second act, Juliet appears in the balcony to converse with Romeo. Corinne had preserved, of her former ornaments, only the flowers, and those were soon to disappear: the theatre half-lighted to represent night, cast a milder reflection upon the countenance of Corinne. There was now something more melodious in her voice, than when surrounded with the splendour of a _fête_. Her hand lifted towards the stars, seemed to invoke the only witnesses worthy of hearing her, and when she repeated, "_Romeo! Romeo!_" although Oswald was certain that she thought of him, he felt jealous that these delicious accents should make the air resound with any other name than his. Oswald was seated opposite the balcony, and he who performed Romeo being a little concealed by the darkness of the scene, Corinne was enabled to fix her eyes upon Oswald when pronouncing these lines:

"In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * therefore pardon me."

At these words--"Pardon me! Pardon me for loving; pardon me for having let you know it!"--There was in Corinne's look, so tender a prayer and so much respect for her lover, so much exultation in her choice, when she said, "Noble Romeo! Fair Montague!" that Oswald felt as proud as he was happy. He raised his head, which tenderness had bowed down, and fancied himself the king of the world, since he reigned over a heart which contained all the treasures of life.

Corinne, perceiving the effect which she produced upon Oswald, became more and more animated by that emotion of the heart which alone produces miracles; and when at the approach of day, Juliet thought she heard the song of the lark--a signal for the departure of Romeo, the accents of Corinne possessed a supernatural charm: they described love, and nevertheless one might perceive that there was something of religious mystery in them, some recollections of heaven, with a presage that she was shortly to return thither; a kind of celestial melancholy, as of a soul exiled upon earth, but which was soon to be called to its divine home. Ah! how happy was Corinne the day that she represented the part of a noble character in a beautiful tragedy before the lover of her choice; how many years, how many lives would appear dull, compared to such a day!

If Lord Nelville could have performed, with Corinne, the part of Romeo, the pleasure which she would have tasted would not have been so complete. She would have desired to put aside the verses of the greatest poet in order to speak the dictates of her own heart; perhaps even her genius would have been confined by insurmountable timidity; she would not have dared to look at Oswald for fear of betraying herself, and truth would have destroyed the charm of art; but how sweet it was to know that he whom she loved was present when she experienced those exalted sentiments which poetry alone can inspire; when she felt all the charm of tender emotions, without their real pain; when the affection she expressed was neither personal nor abstract; and when she seemed to say to Lord Nelville, "See how I am able to love."

It is impossible when the situation is our own to be satisfied with ourselves: passion and timidity alternately transport and check us--inspire us either with too much bitterness or too much submission; but to appear perfect without affectation; to unite calm to sensibility, which too frequently destroys it; in a word, to exist for a moment in the sweetest reveries of the heart; such was the pure enjoyment of Corinne in performing tragedy. She united to this pleasure that of all the plaudits she received; and her look seemed to place them at the feet of Oswald, at the feet of him whose simple approval she valued more than all her fame. Corinne was happy, at least for a moment! for a moment, at least, she experienced at the price of her repose, those delights of the soul which till then she had vainly wished for, and which she would ever have to regret!

Juliet in the third act becomes privately, the wife of Romeo. In the fourth, her parents wishing to force her to marry another, she determines to take the opiate which she receives from the hand of a friar, and which is to give her the appearance of death. All the motions of Corinne, her disturbed gait, her altered accent, her looks, sometimes animated and sometimes dejected, painted the cruel conflict of fear and love, the terrible images which pursued her at the idea of being transported alive to the tomb of her ancestors, and the enthusiasm of passion, which enabled a soul, so young, to triumph over so natural a terror. Oswald felt an almost irresistible impulse to fly to her aid. At one time she lifted her eyes towards heaven, with an ardour which deeply expressed that need of divine protection, from which no human being was ever free. At another time, Lord Nelville thought he saw her stretch her arms towards him to ask his assistance--he rose up in a transport of delirium, and then sat down immediately, brought to his senses by the astonished looks of those about him; but his emotion became so strong that it could no longer be concealed.

In the fifth act, Romeo, who believes Juliet dead, lifts her from the tomb before she awakes and presses her to his heart. Corinne was clad in white, her black hair dishevelled, and her head inclined upon Romeo with a grace, and nevertheless an appearance of death, so affecting and so gloomy, that Oswald felt himself shaken with the most opposite impressions. He could not bear to see Corinne in the arms of another, and he shuddered at beholding the image of her whom he loved, apparently deprived of life; so that in fact he felt, like Romeo, that cruel combination of despair and love, of death and pleasure, which makes this scene the most agonising that ever was represented on a stage. At length, when Juliet awakes in this tomb, at the foot of which her lover has just immolated himself, when her first words in her coffin, beneath these funeral vaults, are not inspired by the terror which they ought to cause, when she exclaims:

"Where is my lord? Where is my Romeo?"

Lord Nelville replied by deep groans, and did not return to himself till Mr Edgermond conducted him out of the theatre.

The piece being finished, Corinne felt indisposed from emotion and fatigue. Oswald entered first into her apartment, where he saw her alone with her women, still in the costume of Juliet, and, like Juliet, almost swooning in their arms. In the excess of his trouble he could not distinguish whether it was truth or fiction, and throwing himself at the feet of Corinne, exclaimed, in English:

"Eyes look your last! Arms take your last embrace."

Corinne, still wandering, cried: "Good God! what do you say? are you going to leave me?"--"No;" interrupted Oswald, "I swear--" At that instant the crowd of Corinne's friends and admirers forced the door in order to see her. Her eyes were fixed upon Oswald, listening with anxiety for what he was about to answer; but there was no opportunity for further conversation between them during the whole evening, for they were not left alone a single instant.

Never had the performance of a tragedy produced such an effect in Italy. The Romans extolled with transport the talents of Corinne, both as the representative of Juliet, and the translator of the piece. They said that this was truly the species of tragedy which suited the Italians, which painted their manners, moved the soul by captivating the imagination, and gave effect to their beautiful language, in a style alternately eloquent and lyrical, inspired and natural. Corinne received all these praises with the sweetest air imaginable; but her soul remained suspended on the words "_I swear_,"--which Oswald had pronounced when he was prevented by the entrance of the company from concluding his sentence: this word might in truth contain the secret of her destiny.