impressions of his life. If you ask Englishmen sailing at the extremity
of the world whither they are going, they will answer you, _home_, if
they are returning to England. Their wishes and their sentiments are
always turned towards their native country, at whatever distance they
may be from it.
They descended between decks to hear divine service, and Corinne soon
perceived that her idea was without foundation, that Lord Nelville had
not formed the solemn project she had at first supposed. She then
reproached herself with having feared such an event, and the
embarrassment of her present situation revived in her bosom; for all the
company believed her to be the wife of Lord Nelville, and she had not
the courage to say a word that might either destroy or confirm this
idea. Oswald suffered as cruelly as she did; but in the midst of a
thousand rare qualities, there was much weakness and irresolution in his
character. These defects are unperceived by their possessor, and assume
in his eyes a new form under every circumstance; he conceives it
alternately to be prudence, sensibility, or delicacy, which defers the
moment of adopting a resolution and prolongs a state of indecision;
hardly ever does he feel that it is the same character which attaches
this kind of inconvenience to every circumstance.
Corinne, however, notwithstanding the painful thoughts that occupied
her, received a deep impression from the spectacle which she witnessed.
Nothing, in truth, speaks more to the soul than divine service performed
on board a ship; and the noble simplicity of the reformed worship seems
particularly adapted to the sentiments which are then felt. A young man
performed the functions of chaplain; he preached with a mild but firm
voice, and his figure bespoke the rigid principles of a pure soul amidst
the ardour of youth. That severity carries with it an idea of force,
very suitable to a religion preached among the perils of war. At stated
moments, the English minister delivered prayers, the last words of which
all the assembly repeated with him. These confused but mild voices
proceeding from various distances kept alive interest and emotion. The
sailors, the officers, and the captain, knelt down several times,
particularly at these words, "_Lord, have mercy upon us!_" The sword of
the captain, which dragged on the deck whilst he was kneeling, called to
mind that noble union of humility before God and intrepidity before man,
which renders the devotion of warriors so affecting; and whilst these
brave people besought the God of armies, the sea was seen through the
port-holes, and sometimes the murmuring of the waves, at that moment
tranquil, seemed to say, "_your prayers are heard_." The chaplain
finished, the service by a prayer, peculiar to the English sailors.
"_May God_," say they, "_give us grace to defend our happy Constitution
from without, and to find on our return domestic happiness at home!_"
How many fine sentiments are united in these simple words! The long and
continued study which the navy requires and the austere life led in a
ship, make it a military cloister in the midst of the waves; and the
regularity of the most serious occupations is there only interrupted by
perils and death. The sailors, in spite of their rough, hardy manners,
often express themselves with much gentleness, and show a particular
tenderness to women and children when they meet them on board. We are
the more touched with these sentiments, because we know with what
coolness they expose themselves to those terrible dangers of war and the
sea, in the midst of which the presence of man has something of the
supernatural.
Corinne and Lord Nelville returned to the boat which was to bring them
ashore; they beheld the city of Naples, built in the form of an
amphitheatre, as if to take part more commodiously in the festival of
nature; and Corinne, in setting her foot again upon Italian ground,
could not refrain from feeling a sentiment of joy. If Nelville had
suspected this sentiment he would have been hurt at it, and perhaps with
reason; yet he would have been unjust towards Corinne, who loved him
passionately in spite of the painful impression caused by the
remembrance of a country where cruel circumstances had rendered her so
unhappy. Her imagination was lively; there was in her heart a great
capacity for love; but talent, especially in a woman, begets a
disposition to weariness, a want of something to divert the attention,
which the most profound passion cannot make entirely disappear. The idea
of a monotonous life, even in the midst of happiness, makes a mind which
stands in need of variety, to shudder with fear. It is only when there
is little wind in the sails, that we can keep close to shore; but the
imagination roves at large, although affection be constant; it is so, at
least, till the moment when misfortune makes every inconsistency
disappear, and leaves but one thought and one grief in the mind.
Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne solely to the embarrassment
into which she had been thrown by hearing herself called Lady Nelville;
and reproaching himself for not having released her from that
embarrassment he feared she might suspect him of levity. He began
therefore in order to arrive at the long-desired explanation by offering
to relate to her his own history. "I will speak first," said he, "and
your confidence will follow mine." "Yes, undoubtedly it must," answered
Corinne, trembling; "but tell me at what day - at what hour? When you
have spoken, I will tell you all." - "How agitated you are," answered
Oswald; "what then, will you ever feel that fear of your friend, that
mistrust of his heart?" "No," continued Corinne; "it is decided; I have
committed it all to writing, and if you choose, to-morrow - "
"To-morrow," said Lord Nelville, "we are to go together to Vesuvius; I
wish to contemplate with you this astonishing wonder, to learn from you
how to admire it; and in this very journey, if I have the strength, I
will make you acquainted with the particulars of my past life. My heart
is determined; thus my confidence will open the way to yours." "So you
give me to-morrow," replied Corinne; "I thank you for this one day. Ah!
who knows whether you will be the same for me when I have opened my soul
to you? And how can I feel such a doubt without shuddering?"
Chapter iv.
The ruins of Pompei are near to Mount Vesuvius, and Corinne and Lord
Neville began their excursion with these ruins. They were both silent;
for the moment approached which was to decide their fate, and that vague
hope they had so long enjoyed, and which accords so well with the
indolence and reverie that the climate of Italy inspires, was to be
replaced by a positive destiny. They visited Pompei together, the most
curious ruin of antiquity. At Rome, seldom any thing is found but the
remains of public monuments, and these monuments only retrace the
political history of past ages; but at Pompei it is the private life of
the ancients which offers itself to the view, such as it was. The
Volcano, which has covered this city with ashes, has preserved it from
the destroying hand of Time. Edifices, exposed to the air, never could
have remained so perfect; but this hidden relic of antiquity was found
entire. The paintings and bronzes were still in their pristine beauty;
and every thing connected with domestic life is fearfully preserved. The
amphoræ are yet prepared for the festival of the following day; the
flour which was to be kneaded is still to be seen; the remains of a
woman, are still decorated with those ornaments which she wore on the
holiday that the Volcano disturbed, and her calcined arms no longer fill
the bracelets of precious stones which still surround them. Nowhere is
to be seen so striking an image of the sudden interruption of life. The
traces of the wheels are visible in the streets, and the stones on the
brink of the wells bear the mark of the cord which has gradually
furrowed them. On the walls of a guardhouse are still to be seen those
misshapen characters, those figures rudely sketched, which the soldiers
traced to pass away the time, while Time was hastily advancing to
swallow them up.
When we place ourselves in the midst of the crossroads from which the
city that remains standing almost entire is seen on all sides, it seems
to us as if we were waiting for somebody, as if the master were coming;
and even the appearance of life which this abode offers makes us feel
more sadly its eternal silence. It is with petrified lava that the
greater part of these houses are built, which are now swallowed up by
other lava. Thus ruins are heaped upon ruins, and tombs upon tombs. This
history of the world, where the epochs are counted from ruin to ruin,
this picture of human life, which is only lighted up by the Volcanoes
that have consumed it, fill the heart with a profound melancholy. How
long man has existed! How long he has suffered and died! Where can we
find his sentiments and his thoughts? Is the air that we breathe in
these ruins impregnated with them, or are they for ever deposited in
heaven where reigns immortality? Some burnt leaves of manuscripts, which
have been found at Herculaneum, and Pompei, and which scholars at
Portici are employed to decipher, are all that remain to give us
information of those unhappy victims, whom the Volcano, that
thunder-bolt of earth, has destroyed. But in passing near those ashes,
which art has succeeded in reanimating, we are afraid to breathe lest a
breath should carry away that dust where noble ideas are perhaps still
imprinted.
The public edifices in the city itself of Pompei, which was one of the
least important of Italy, are yet tolerably fine. The luxury of the
ancients had almost ever some object of public interest for its aim.
Their private houses are very small, and we do not see in them any
studied magnificence, though we may remark a lively taste for the fine
arts in their possessors. Almost the whole interior is adorned with the
most agreeable paintings and mosaic pavements ingeniously worked. On
many of these pavements is written the word _Salve_. This word is placed
on the threshold of the door, and must not be simply considered as a
polite expression, but as an invocation of hospitality. The rooms are
singularly narrow, and badly lighted; the windows do not look on the
street, but on a portico inside the house, as well as a marble court
which it surrounds. In the midst of this court is a cistern, simply
ornamented. It is evident from this kind of habitation that the ancients
lived almost entirely in the open air, and that it was there they
received their friends. Nothing gives us a more sweet and voluptuous
idea of existence than this climate, which intimately unites man with
nature; we should suppose that the character of their conversation and
their society, ought, with such habits, to be different from those of a
country where the rigour of the cold forces the inhabitants to shut
themselves up in their houses. We understand better the Dialogues of
Plato in contemplating those porches under which the ancients walked
during one half of the day. They were incessantly animated by the
spectacle of a beautiful sky: social order, according to their
conceptions, was not the dry combination of calculation and force, but a
happy assemblage of institutions, which stimulated the faculties,
unfolded the soul, and directed man to the perfection of himself and his
equals.
Antiquity inspires an insatiable curiosity. Those men of erudition who
are occupied only in forming a collection of names which they call
history, are certainly divested of all imagination. But to penetrate the
remotest periods of the past, to interrogate the human heart through the
intervening gloom of ages, to seize a fact by the help of a word, and by
the aid of that fact to discover the character and manners of a nation;
in effect, to go back to the remotest time, to figure to ourselves how
the earth in its first youth appeared to the eyes of man, and in what
manner the human race then supported the gift of existence which
civilization has now rendered so complicated, is a continual effort of
the imagination, which divines and discovers the finest secrets that
reflection and study can reveal to us. This occupation of the mind
Oswald found most fascinating, and often repeated to Corinne that if he
had not been taken up with the noblest interests in his own country, he
could only have found life supportable in those parts where the
monuments of history supply the place of present existence. We must at
least regret glory when it is no longer possible to obtain it. It is
forgetfulness alone that debases the soul; but it may find an asylum in
the past, when barren circumstances deprive actions of their aim.
On leaving Pompei and returning to Portici, Corinne and Lord Nelville
were surrounded by the inhabitants, who cried to them loudly to come and
see _the mountain_; so they call _Vesuvius_. Is it necessary to name it?
It is the glory of the Neapolitans and the object of their patriotic
feelings; their country is distinguished by this phenomenon. Oswald had
Corinne carried in a kind of palanquin as far as the hermitage of St
Salvador, which is half way up the mountain, and where travellers repose
before they undertake to climb the summit. He rode by her side to watch
those who carried her, and the more his heart was filled with the
generous thoughts that nature and history inspire, the more he adored
Corinne.
At the foot of Vesuvius the country is the most fertile and best
cultivated that can be found in the kingdom of Naples, that is to say,
in the country of Europe most favoured of heaven. The celebrated vine,
whose wine is called _Lacryma Christi_, grows in this spot, and by the
side of lands which have been laid waste by the lava. One would say that
nature has made a last effort in this spot, so near the Volcano, and has
decked herself in her richest attire before her death. In proportion as
we ascend the mountain, we discover on turning round, Naples, and the
beautiful country that surrounds it. The rays of the sun make the sea
sparkle like precious stones; but all the splendour of the creation is
extinguished by degrees as we approach the land of ashes and smoke which
announces the vicinity of the Volcano. The ferruginous lava of preceding
years has traced in the earth deep and sable furrows, and all around
them is barren. At a certain height not a bird is seen to fly, at
another, plants become very scarce, then even the insects find nothing
to subsist on in the arid soil. At length every living thing disappears;
you enter the empire of death, and the pulverised ashes alone roll
beneath your uncertain feet.
Nè griggi nè armenti
Guida bifolco, mai guida pastore
_Neither flocks nor herds does the husbandman or the shepherd ever guide
to this spot._
Here dwells a hermit on the confines of life and death. A tree, the
last farewell of vegetation, grows before his door: and it is beneath
the shadow of its pale foliage that travellers are accustomed to wait
the approach of night, to continue their route; for during the day, the
fires of Vesuvius are only perceived like a cloud of smoke, and the
lava, so bright and burning in the night, appears black before the beams
of the sun. This metamorphosis itself is a fine spectacle, which renews
every evening that astonishment which the continuity of the same aspect
might weaken. The impression of this spot and its profound solitude,
gave Lord Nelville more resolution to reveal the secrets of his soul;
and desiring to excite the confidence of Corinne, he said to her with
the most lively emotion: - "You wish to read the inmost soul of your
unhappy friend; well, I will tell you all: I feel my wounds are about to
bleed afresh; but ought we, in this desolate scene of nature, to dread
so much those sufferings which Time brings in its course?"
[Illustration]
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