Chapter 34

Oswald, since his calamity, had not found spirits to seek the pleasure of music. He dreaded those ravishing strains so soothing to melancholy, but which inflict pain, when we are oppressed by real grief. Music awakens those bitter recollections which we are desirous to appease. When Corinne sang, Oswald listened to the words she uttered; he contemplated the expression of her countenance, it was she alone that occupied him; but if in the streets of an evening, several voices were joined, as it frequently happens in Italy, to sing the fine airs of the great masters, he at first endeavoured to listen, and then retired, because the emotion it excited, at once so exquisite and so indefinite, renewed his pain. However, there was a magnificent concert to be given in the theatre at Rome, which was to combine the talents of all the best singers. Corinne pressed Lord Nelville to accompany her to this concert, and he consented, expecting that his feelings would be softened and refined by the presence of her he loved.

On entering her box, Corinne was immediately recognised, and the remembrance of the Capitol adding to the interest which she usually inspired, the theatre resounded with applause. From every part of the house they cried, "Long live Corinne!" and the musicians themselves, electrified by this general emotion, began to play victorious strains; for men are led to associate triumph of every sort with war and battle. Corinne was intimately affected with these universal tokens of admiration and respect. The music, the applause, the _bravos_, and that indefinable impression, which a multitude of people expressing one sentiment always produces, awakened those feelings which, in spite of her efforts to conceal them, appeared in her eyes suffused with tears, and the palpitation of her heart equally visible. Oswald, jealous of this emotion, approached her, saying in a low voice,--"It would be a pity madam to snatch you from this brilliant popularity, it is certainly equal to love, since it produces the same effect in your heart."--Having spoken thus, he retired to the further end of the box without waiting for any reply. These words produced the most cruel agitation in the bosom of Corinne, and in a moment destroyed all the pleasure she received from these expressions of applause, which principally gave her delight because they were witnessed by Oswald.

The concert began--he who has not heard Italian singing can have no idea of music! Italian voices are so soft and sweet, that they recall at once the perfume of flowers, and the purity of the sky. Nature has destined the music for the climate: one is like a reflection of the other. The world is the work of one mind, expressed in a thousand different forms. The Italians, during a series of ages, have been enthusiastically fond of music. Dante, in his poem of purgatory, meets with one of the best singers of his age; being entreated, he sings one of his delicious airs, and the ravished spirits are lulled into oblivion of their sufferings, until recalled by their guardian angel. The Christians, as well as the pagans, have extended the empire of music beyond the grave. Of all the fine arts, it is that which produces the most immediate effect upon the soul. The others are directed to some particular idea; but this appeals to the intimate source of our existence, and entirely changes our inmost soul. What is said of Divine Grace, which suddenly transforms the heart, may humanly speaking be applied to the power of melody; and among the presentiments of the life to come, those which spring from music are not to be despised.

Even the gaiety which the comic music of Italy is so well calculated to excite, is not of that vulgar description which does not speak to the imagination. At the very bottom of the mirth which it excites, will be found poetical sensations and an agreeable reverie, which mere verbal pleasantry never could inspire. Music is so fleeting a pleasure, that it glides away almost at the same time we feel it, in such a manner, that a melancholy impression is mingled with the gaiety which it excites; but when expressive of grief, it also gives birth to a sweet sentiment. The heart beats more quickly while listening to it, and the satisfaction caused by the regularity of the measure, by reminding us of the brevity of time, points out the necessity of enjoying it. You no longer feel any void, any silence, around you; life is filled; the blood flows quickly; you feel within you that motion which gives activity to life, and you have no fear of the external obstacles with which it is beset.

Music redoubles the ideas which we possess of the faculties of the soul; when listening to it we feel capable of the noblest efforts. Animated by music, we march to the field of death with enthusiasm. This divine art is happily incapable of expressing any base sentiment, any artifice, any falsehood. Calamity itself, in the language of music, is stript of its bitterness; it neither irritates the mind nor rends the heart. Music gently raises that weight which almost constantly oppresses the heart when we are formed for deep and serious affections; that weight which sometimes becomes confounded with the very sense of our existence, so habitual is the pain which it causes. It seems to us in listening to pure and delectable sounds, that we are about to seize the secret of the Creator, and penetrate the mystery of life. No language can express this impression, for language drags along slowly behind primitive impressions, as prose translators behind the footsteps of poets. It is only a look that can give some idea of it; the look of an object you love, long fixed upon you, and penetrating by degrees so deeply into your heart, that you are at length obliged to cast down your eyes to escape a happiness so intense, that, like the splendour of another life, it would consume the mortal being who should presume stedfastly to contemplate it.

The admirable exactness of two voices perfectly in harmony produces, in the duets of the great Italian masters, a melting delight which cannot be prolonged without pain. It is a state of pleasure too exquisite for human nature; and the soul then vibrates like an instrument which a too perfect harmony would break. Oswald had obstinately kept at a distance from Corinne during the first part of the concert; but when the duet began, with faintly-sounding voices, accompanied by wind instruments, whose sounds were more pure than the voices themselves, Corinne covered her face with her handkerchief, entirely absorbed in emotion; she wept, but without suffering--she loved, and was undisturbed by any fear. Undoubtedly the image of Oswald was present to her heart; but this image was mingled with the most noble enthusiasm, and a crowd of confused thoughts wandered over her soul: it would have been necessary to limit these thoughts in order to render them distinct. It is said that a prophet traversed seven different regions of heaven in a minute. He who could thus conceive all that an instant might contain, must surely have felt the sublime power of music by the side of the object he loved. Oswald felt this power, and his resentment became gradually appeased. The feelings of Corinne explained and justified everything; he gently approached her, and Corinne heard him breathing by her side in the most enchanting passage of this celestial music. It was too much--the most pathetic tragedy could not have excited in her heart so much sensation as this intimate sentiment of profound emotion which penetrated them both at the same time, and which each succeeding moment, each new sound, continually exalted. The words of a song have no concern in producing this emotion--they may indeed occasionally excite some passing reflection on love or death; but it is the indefinite charm of music which blends itself with every feeling of the soul; and each one thinks he finds in this melody, as in the pure and tranquil star of night, the image of what he wishes for on earth.

"Let us retire," said Corinne; "I feel ready to faint." "What ails you?" said Oswald, with uneasiness; "you grow pale. Come into the open air with me; come." They went out together. Corinne, leaning on the arm of Oswald, felt her strength revive from the consciousness of his support. They both approached a balcony, and Corinne, with profound emotion, said to her lover, "Dear Oswald, I am about to leave you for eight days." "What do you tell me?" interrupted he. "Every year," replied she, "at the approach of Holy Week, I go to pass some time in a convent, to prepare myself for the solemnity of Easter." Oswald advanced nothing in opposition to this intention; he knew that at this epoch, the greater part of the Roman ladies gave themselves up to the most rigid devotion, without however on that account troubling themselves very seriously about religion during the rest of the year; but he recollected that Corinne professed a different worship to his, and that they could not pray together. "Why are you not," cried he, "of the same religion as myself?" Having pronounced this wish, he stopped short. "Have not our hearts and minds the same country?" answered Corinne. "It is true," replied Oswald; "but I do not feel less painfully all that separates us." They were then joined by Corinne's friends; but this eight days' absence so oppressed his heart that he did not utter a word during the whole evening.