races, Peregrine was struck with admiration at the beauty of a young
lady, who seemed to be of his own age. He begged she would do him the
honour to walk a minuet with him, and she frankly complied with his
request. If he was charmed with her appearance, he was quite ravished
with her discourse, which was sensible, spirited, and gay. Her mother,
who was present, thanked him for his civility, and he received a
compliment of the same nature from the young lady's brother.
When the company broke up, Peregrine obtained permission to visit her at
her habitation about sixteen miles from Winchester, and was also
informed by her mother that her name was Miss Emilia Gauntlet. He
assured Mrs. Gauntlet that he should not neglect this invitation, and
having learned that his Emilia (for so he already called her) was the
only daughter of a deceased field officer, he set out early one morning
for the village where his charmer lived. He was received with
demonstrations of regard and affection by Emilia and her mother; but his
absence produced great disturbance at Winchester, and finally the
Commodore, having been informed of his nephew's disappearance,
dispatched Hatchway, who traced the truant to the village where he had
taken up his abode, and persuaded him to return to the school.
Shortly afterwards Peregrine was summoned to attend his uncle, and in a
few days arrived with Mr. Jolter and Pipes at the garrison, which he
filled with joy and satisfaction. From a comely boy he was now converted
into a most engaging youth, already taller than a middle-sized man. The
Commodore, who assumed justly the whole merit of his education, was as
proud of the youth's improvements as if he had actually been his own
offspring; but Peregrine could not help feeling the injury he suffered
from the caprice of his mother, and foreseeing the disagreeable
situation he would find himself in if any sudden accident should deprive
him of the Commodore, he therefore accompanied his uncle one evening to
the Club and presented himself to his father, begging pathetically to
know how he had incurred his displeasure.
Mr. Gamaliel was never so disconcerted as at this rencontre. His own
disposition was perfectly neutral, but he was so strongly impressed with
the terror of his wife, that he answered in a peevish strain, "Why, good
now, child, what would you have me to do? Your mother can't abide you."
"If my mother is so unkind, I hope you will not be so unjust," said
Peregrine, tears of indignation starting from his eyes. Before Mr.
Pickle could reply, the Commodore interposed, and Gamaliel at length
surrendered. He acquiesced in the justice of his friend's observations,
and, taking his son by the hand, promised to favour him for the future
with his love and fatherly protection.
But this laudable resolution did not last. Mrs. Pickle, having made him
disclose what had happened, he sustained a most severe rebuke for his
simplicity and indiscretion, and humbled himself so far as to promise to
annul the condescensions he had made, and for ever renounce the
ungracious object of her disgust. This undertaking was punctually
performed in a letter to the Commodore, which Mrs. Pickle herself
dictated: "Sir,--Whereas my good nature being last night imposed upon, I
was persuaded to promise I know not what to that vicious youth whose
parent I have the misfortune to be; I desire you will take notice that I
revoke all such promises, and shall never look upon that man as my
friend, who will henceforth in such a cause solicit,
Yours, etc., GAM. PICKLE."
Trunnion was incensed by this absurd renunciation, nor did Peregrine
bear with patience the injurious declaration.
Meanwhile preparations were made for the youth's departure to the
University, and in a few weeks Peregrine set out for Oxford in the
seventeenth year of his age, accompanied by Mr. Jolter and Pipes, the
same attendants who lived with him at Winchester.
-IV.--Peregrine is Left an Orphan and Marries-
From the University, Peregrine went on a grand tour in Europe, and was
only summoned home by a letter from Lieutenant Hatchway representing the
dangerous condition of the Commodore.
Our hero arrived at the garrison about four o'clock in the morning and
found his generous uncle in extremity. Though the Commodore's speech was
difficult, he still retained the use of his senses, and when Peregrine
approached, stretched out his hand with manifest signs of satisfaction.
In spite of all his endeavours, the tears gushed from the young man's
eyes, and the Commodore, perceiving his distress, made a last effort and
consoled him in these words:
"Swab the spray from your bowsprit, my good lad, and coil up your
spirits. Many a better man has foundered before he has made half my way;
though I trust, by the mercy of God, I shall be sure in port in a very
few glasses, and fast moored in a most blessed riding; for my good
friend Jolter hath overhauled the journal of my sins, and by the
observation he hath taken of the state of my soul, I hope I shall
happily conclude my voyage, and be brought up in the latitude of heaven.
Now while the sucker of my windpipe will go, I would willingly mention a
few things which I hope you will set down in the logbook of your
remembrance, d'ye see. There's your aunt sitting whimpering by the fire;
I desire you will keep her tight, warm, and easy in her old age. Jack
Hatchway, I believe she has a kindness for you; whereby, if you two will
grapple in the way of matrimony I do suppose that my godson for love of
me, will allow you to live in the garrison all the days of your life. I
need not talk of Pipes, because I know you will do for him without any
recommendation. But I hope you'll take care of the rest of my crew, and
not disrate them after I am dead in favour of new followers. As for that
young woman, Ned Gauntlet's daughter, I am informed as how she's an
excellent wench, and has a respect for you; whereby if you run her on
board in an unlawful way, I leave my curse upon you, and trust you will
never prosper in the voyage of life. But I believe you are more of an
honest man than to behave so much like a pirate. As soon as the breath
is out of my body, let minute guns be fired, till I am safe under
ground. Let my pistols, cutlass, and pocket compass be laid in the
coffin along with me. And now I have no more to say, but God in heaven
have mercy on my soul, and send you all fair weather, wheresoever you
may be bound."
The Commodore's voice sunk so low as not to be distinguished, and having
lain about an hour without moving he gave up the ghost with a groan.
Peregrine, having performed the will with a most pious punctuality,
examined the will, and being sole executor, took an account of the
estate to which he had succeeded, which amounted to £30,000.
His domestic affairs being settled, Hatchway remaining in command at the
garrison, Peregrine was visited by almost all the gentlemen in the
country, who endeavoured to effect a reconciliation betwixt his father
and him. Old Gamaliel, at their entreaties, seemed very well disposed to
any accommodation; but his favourable disposition was rendered
altogether ineffectual by his implacable wife, and our hero resigned all
expectations of being reunited to his father's house.
Peregrine, then took leave of all his friends, and repaired to London,
where he made a remarkable appearance among the people of fashion. His
own follies made Mrs. Gauntlet and Emilia hold aloof from him, and
landed him for a time in the Fleet Prison. From this place the good
offices of Emilia's brother, Godfrey Gauntlet, and Hatchway, released
him, and the news of his father's death, who had died without making a
will, hastened his departure. Peregrine, having thus succeeded to his
father's estate, set off at once for the country, and instead of
alighting at the garrison, rode straightway to his father's house,
accompanied by Hatchway and Pipes.
No servants appearing to receive him, Peregrine advanced into the hall
and made immediate application to a bell-rope. This brought two footmen
into his presence, and one of them, in reply to a stern reprimand, said
sullenly that they had been in the service of old Mr. Pickle, and now
that he was dead, thought themselves bound to obey nobody but their
lady, and her son Mr. Gamaliel. Our hero ordered them to decamp without
further preparation, and as they continued restive, they were kicked out
of doors by Hatchway. Young Gamaliel flew to the assistance of his
adherents, and discharged a pistol at his brother, who luckily escaped
the shot and turned him out into the court-yard, to the consolation of
his two dependents.
The noise of the pistol alarmed Mrs. Pickle, who, running down stairs,
would have assaulted our hero, had she not been restrained. The exercise
of her tongue not being hindered, she wagged against him with all the
virulence of malice. She asked if he was come to butcher his brother, to
insult his father's corpse, and triumph in her affliction? And bestowed
upon him the epithets of spendthrift, jail-bird, and unnatural ruffian.
Peregrine calmly replied, that if she did not quietly retire to her
chamber, he should insist upon her removing to another lodging; for he
was determined to be master in his own house.
Next morning the house was supplied with some servants from the
garrison, and preparations were made for the funeral of the deceased.
Gamaliel, having taken lodging in the neighbourhood, was speedily
followed by his mother, to whom Peregrine sent word that a regular
provision should be settled upon her.
No will having been made in favour of the second son, all Mr. Pickle's
property, amounting to more than £80,000, fell to Peregrine, the widow
being entitled to a jointure of £500 a year.
On Peregrine's return to London, Godfrey Gauntlet, knowing his sister's
affections still undiverted from her earliest love, arranged for his
friend to call for him at Emilia's lodgings.
Rushing into her presence, Peregrine was at first so dazzled with her
beauty, that his speech failed, and all his culties were absorbed in
admiration. Then he obeyed the impulse of his love, and circled the
charmer in his arms without suffering the least frown or symptom of
displeasure. Observing Mrs. Gauntlet, he asked pardon for his neglect,
and was forgiven in consideration of the long and unhappy exile which he
had suffered.
"I ought to punish you with the mortification of a twelve months'
trial," said Emilia, "but it is dangerous to tamper with an admirer of
your disposition, and therefore I think I must make sure of you while it
is in my power."
"You are willing, then, to take me for better, for worse, in presence of
heaven and these witnesses?" cried Peregrine, kneeling, and applying her
hand to his lips. She darted a side-glance, while her answer was,
"Why--heaven grant me patience to bear the humours of such a
yolk-fellow."
"And may the same powers," replied the youth, "grant me life and
opportunity to manifest the immensity of my love."
Matters being thus happily matured, the lover begged that immediate
recourse might be had to the church, and set out with Godfrey for Doctor
Commons for a license, having first agreed that the ceremony should be
performed in the lodgings of the bride.
Permission being obtained, they found a means to engage a clergyman, who
undertook to attend them at their own time and place.
The ceremony was performed without delay, Hatchway standing as godfather
to the bride.
Such another couple as Peregrine and Emilia were not to be found in the
whole United Kingdom.
* * * * *
MADAME DE STAËL
Corinne
Madame de Staël, the most famous and brilliant of the many
famous Frenchwomen of the Revolution and the Empire, was born,
like Bonaparte himself, of alien parents. Her father was
Necker, the eminent Swiss minister of finance under Louis XVI,
whose triumph and exile were among the startling events of the
opening stage of the Revolution; whilst her mother, also
Swiss, had been the lover of the historian Gion and now
presided over one of the most brilliant -salons- in Paris.
Anne Marie Louise Germaine Necker was born at Paris on April
22, 1766. In 1787 she was married--unhappily--to Baron de
Staël-Holstein, Swedish Ambassador at Paris. She was in peril
during the Terror, but escaped to Switzerland. A few years
afterwards she showed keen political activity against
Napoleon, who respected her hostility so profoundly that he
would not suffer her to approach Paris. Madame de Staëls
"Corinne, or Italy," is accounted one of her two masterpieces,
the other one being "On Germany." (See Vol. XX.) It was
published in 1807, and was written at Coppet, in Switzerland,
her place of residence and exile during her many enforced
sojourns from Paris by order of the Emperor. "Corinne" not
only revealed for the first time to the Frenchmen of her day
the grandeur and mystery and charm of Italy, but also showed
the national characteristics of French and Englishmen for the
first time in their respective, and in a European light.
Moreover, as one European critic has pointed out, it is also
one of the first, and still one of the subtlest, studies in
the psychology of sex and emancipation of woman of the
nineteenth century. Madame de Staël's relations with the
clever and ambitious young statesman and writer, Benjamin
Constant, formed the chief source of her inspiration in
writing "Corinne," as it formed his in writing "Adolphe."
Madame de Staël died in Paris, July 14, 1817.
-I.--The Roman Poetess-
When Oswald, Lord Nevil, awoke on his first morning in Rome, he heard
church bells ringing and cannon firing, as if announcing some high
solemnity. He inquired the cause and learned that the most celebrated
woman in Italy would that morning be crowned at the capital--Corinne,
the poetess and improvisatrice, one of the loveliest women of Rome.
As he walked the streets, he heard her named every instant. Her family
name was unknown. She had won fame by her verses five years before,
under the simple name of Coe; and no one could tell where she had lived
nor what she had been, in her earlier days.
The, triumphal procession approached, heralded by a burst of melody.
First came a number of Roman nobles, then an antique car drawn by four
spotless steeds, escorted by white clad maidens. Not until he beheld the
woman in the car did Oswald lay aside his English reserve and yield to
the spirit of the scene. Corinne was tall, robust like a Greek statue,
and transcendently beautiful. Her attitude was noble and modest; while
it manifestly pleased her to be admired, yet a timid air blended with
her joy, and she seemed to ask pardon for her triumph.
She ascended to the capitol; the assembled Roman poets recited her
praises; Prince Castel Forte, the most honoured of Roman noblemen,
uttered a eulogy of her; and, ere she received the destined bays, she
took up her lyre and in accordance with custom gave a poetic
improvisation. The subject of her passionate chant was the glory of
Italy; and amid the impetuous applause that followed, Corinne, looking
round, observed Oswald. She saw him to be English; she was struck by his
melancholy, and by the mourning he wore. Taking up her lyre again, she
spoke some touching stanzas on death and consolation that went straight
to his heart.
The crown of bays and myrtle was placed on her head; she descended from
the Capitol amid a burst of triumphant music. As she passed Oswald, the
crown accidentally fell from her head. He quickly picked it up and
restored it to her, with a few words of homage in Italian. What was his
surprise when she thanked him in perfect English!
On the evening of the next day, Oswald was introduced to Corinne at her
own house by the Count d'Erfeuil, a Frenchman who had been his companion
in the journey into Italy. The Prince Castel Forte and all the other
guests paid her the most assiduous attention; Oswald gazed on her for
the most part in silence, wondering at the mingled sweetness and
vivacity of her conversation, realising that she possessed a grace that
he had never met before. Although she invited him to meet her again, he
did not go on the next evening; he was restrained by a kind of terror at
the feeling which excited him.
"Oh, my father," he sighed, "had you known Corinne, what would you have
thought of her?"
For the mourning that Oswald wore was for his father. A terrible event
in Oswald's life had drawn the two apart; his father had died ere he
could return to ask forgiveness. But his father had blessed him on his
deathbed, and it was Oswald's whole desire in the grief that preyed upon
him, to live in all things as his dead parent would have wished him to
live.
The attraction of Corinne's society soon drew him back to her presence,
and during the next fortnight she, at her own proposal, guided him in
his exploration of Rome. Together they wandered through the ruins, the
churches, the art galleries. Their opinions were seldom in agreement;
Corinne was characteristically and brightly Italian in her views, Oswald
characteristically and sombrely English. But each was conscious, none
the less, of keen intellectual sympathy with the other; and Oswald,
without speaking of the love of which he began to be conscious, made her
sensible of it every hour in the day. His proud retiring attachment shed
a new interest over her life. Accustomed as she was to the lively and
flattering tributes of the Italians, this outward coldness disguising
intense tenderness of heart captivated her imagination.
But one morning she received from him a note saying that indisposition
would confine him to his house for some days. Oswald had made up his
mind to avoid Corinne; he felt too strongly the power of her charms.
What would his father have said of this woman? Could she, the brilliant
poetess, be expected to possess the English domestic virtues which his
father valued above all things in a wife? Besides, there was a mystery
about her; she had not revealed her name and family even to him; nor had
he ever had an explanation of her perfect knowledge of English.
Corinne was terrified, on receiving the note, by the idea that he would
fly without bidding her adieu. Unable to rest in the house where Oswald
came not, she wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to meet him. As
she was seated in grief beside the Fount of Trevi, Oswald, who had
paused there at the same moment, saw her countenance reflected in the
water. He started, as if he had seen her phantom; but a moment later
Corinne had rushed forward and seized his arm--then, repenting of her
impetuosity, she blushed, and covered her face to hide her tears.
"Dear Corinne!" he cried, "has my absence pained you?"
"Yes," she replied, "you must have known it would. Why then inflict such
pangs on me? Have I deserved them?"
Her emotion greatly affected Oswald. "I will visit you again to-morrow,
Corinne," he said. "Swear it!" she exclaimed, eagerly. "I do."
-II.--The Living and the Dead-
Oswald's natural irresolution had been augmented by misfortune, and he
hesitated before entering upon an irrevocable engagement. Although he no
longer sought to disguise his affection for Corinne, he did not propose
marriage to her. She, on her part, was mortified by his silence. Often
he was on the point of breaking it; but the thought of his father
restrained him--and the thought of Lucy Edgarmond, the English girl whom
his father had wished him to marry, when she was old enough, and whom he
had not seen since she was a child of twelve. What, he asked himself,
again and again, was his duty?
One day, as he was visiting her at her house at Tivoli, she took her
harp and sang one of those simple Scotch ballads, the notes of which
seemed fit to be borne on the wailing breeze. Oswald's heart was touched
at the memories thus awakened of his own country; his eyes filled with
tears.
"Ah, Corinne," he cried, "does then my country affect your heart? Could
you go with me there, and be the partner of my life?"
"Surely I could," she answered, "for I love you."
"In love's name, then, tell me who you are, Corinne; have no more
secrets from me."
"Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald. I only ask that you require not my
story until the religious solemnities of Easter are over; is not the
support of heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must
decide my fate?"
"Corinne," he said, "if thy fate depends on me, it shall no longer be a
sad one."
When Easter was over, Corinne set out for Naples, where she had many
friends and admirers; and Oswald accompanied her there. She still feared
to tell the story of her life.
"Who can tell," she said to Oswald, "if, when I have opened my heart to
you, you will remain the same? How can I help trembling beneath such
doubt?"
To encourage her, and to exchange confidences honourably with her, he
told her his own secret He had been skilfully drawn into an intrigue
with a scheming Frenchwoman, utterly against his father's wishes; when
he had escaped from the net that had been cast for him, and was hurrying
homeward, he heard the news that the being whom he loved and revered
most of all mankind was dead. He had knelt at his father's tomb and
sworn in atonement that he would never marry without his consent. But
how obtain the consent of one who was no more? Lucy Edgarmond--Corinne
started at the name--had been destined by his father for his bride. Was
the wish one that could be set aside? He had simply advised the match,
for Lucy was still a child with character unformed.
"Ere I met you," said Oswald, "I meant to fulfil his wish as an act of
expiation; but now," he went on passionately, "you have triumphed over
my whole being. My doubts are over, love; I am yours for ever. Would my
father have had it otherwise had he known you?"
"Hold," cried Corinne, "speak not thus to me yet!"
"Ah, tell me what you have to tell me!"
"Presently I shall; and I shall hear my sentence from your lips
unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel."
Ere she revealed her story, Corinne gave a fête, as if to enjoy one more
day of fame and happiness ere her lover pronounced her doom. It was held
on the cape of Micena. The lovely bay and its islands lay before the
party; Vesuvius frowned in the background. As the party embarked to
return in the glowing calm of the evening hour, Corinne put back her
tresses that she might better enjoy the sea air; Oswald had never seen
her look so beautiful.
"Oh, my love, oh, my love," he whispered, "can I ever forget this day?"
"Alas!" returned Corinne, "I hope not for such another day."
"Corinne!" he cried, "here is the ring my father gave his wife, let me
give it to you, and while you keep it, let me be no longer free."
"No, no! take it back," she answered in a stifled voice.
"I shall not," he replied; "I swear never to wed another till you send
back that ring."
"Perhaps when you have read my history, the dreadful word adieu--"
"Never," cried Oswald, "until my deathbed--fear not that word till
then."
"Alas!" said Corinne, "as I looked at the heavens a minute ago, the moon
was covered by a cloud of fatal aspect. A childish superstition came
back to my mind. To-night the sky condemns our love."
That evening Corinne's maid brought him the papers in which she had
written her story.
-III.--Corinne's Story-
"Oswald, I begin with the avowal that must determine my fate. Lord
Edgarmond was my father. I was born in Italy; his first wife was a Roman
lady; and Lucy, whom they intended for your bride, is my sister by my
father's second marriage.
"I lost my mother ere I was ten years old, and remained in the care of
an aunt at Florence until I was fifteen, when my father brought me to
his home in Northumberland. My stepmother was a cold, dignified, silent
woman, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child Lucy, then
three years old; but she usually wore so positive an air that it seemed
impossible to make her understand a new idea.
"My tastes and talents had already been formed, and they were but
ill-suited to the dismal monotony of my life in Northumberland. I was
bidden to forget Italy; I was not allowed to converse on poetry or art;
I had no congenial friends. Even the sun, that might have reminded me of
Italy, was often hidden by fog. My only occupation was the education of
my half-sister; my only solace, the company of my father.
"'My dear child, he said to me once, it is not here as in Italy; our
women have no occupation save their domestic uses. Your talents may
beguile your solitude; but in a country town like this all that attracts
attention excites envy. One must not combat the habits of a place in
which one is established. It is better to bear a little ennui than to be
beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons for what you
do.'
"Lord Nevil was my father's intimate friend, and it was yourself of whom
he thought for my husband. Had we then met and loved, our fate would
have been cloudless. But when I was presented to Lord Nevil I desired,
perhaps too ardently, to please him; I displayed all my talents,
dancing, singing, and extemporising before him--I believe, though I am
not certain--that I appeared to Lord Nevil somewhat too wild; for
although he treated me very kindly, yet, when he left my father he said
that he thought his son too young for the marriage in question. Oswald,
what importance do you attach to this confession? I might suppress it,
but I will not. Is it possible that it will prove my condemnation?
"When my father died, my despair was uncontrollable. I found myself
without support. My only adult relation was my stepmother, who was as
frigid as ever towards me. I was attacked by that homesick yearning
which makes exile more terrible than death. All the country around me
was dull and sullen. I longed for the sunshine, the vine, the music, the
sweet language of Italy. 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.
"When I suggested the possibility of my doing so to Lady Edgarmond, she
replied, with dry indifference, 'You are of age, and the mistress of
your conduct; but if you take any step which would dishonour you in the
eyes of the world, you owe it to your family to change your name and be
reported dead.' This heartless scorn helped me to come to a decision. In
less than a week I had embarked on a vessel for Leghorn. I set forth
without warning my stepmother, but left a letter apprising her of my
plans.
"For a time I lived in Florence, whither Lady Edgarmond wrote me word of
her having spread the report that I had travelled southwards for my
health and had died on the voyage. During the following five years, as
you know, I won fame as Corinne the poetess.
"And now you know my history--I have concealed nothing. My happiness
depends entirely upon you. When you have read this, I would see you; my
impatience will bring me to your side, and I shall read my fate at a
glance; for grief is a rapid poison--and the heart, though weak, never
mistakes the signal of irrevocable destiny."
-IV.--Parting and Pursuit-
"Well," said Corinne, struggling to appear calm, when she went to Oswald
to learn her fate, "you have had time enough--speak! tell me what you
have resolved!"
"Corinne," answered Oswald, "my heart is unchanged. We will both live
for love. I will return."
"Return!" interrupted Corinne; "ah, you leave me then! How all is
changed since yesterday!"
"Dearest love," he replied, "be composed. It is necessary that I should
ascertain my father's reasons for opposing our union seven years ago. I
will hope for the best, Corinne; but if my father decides against you, I
will never be the husband of another, though I cannot be yours."
One night in Venice a few weeks later, when Corinne was leaving a scene
of festivity of which she had been the most brilliant ornament, Oswald
led her aside. She marked his paleness and agitation.
"What has happened?" she cried.
"I must start for England to-night. My regiment is about to embark for
the West Indies, and I am recalled to rejoin it."
"Ah!" moaned Corinne, "when I tell myself to-morrow 'I shall see him no
more,' the thought may kill me; happy am I if it does."
"Why do you fear? Is my solemn promise nothing?"
"Oh, I believe it; but listen--when you are in London, you will discover
that love promises bind not your honour. Will you find excuses in these
sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound on me? Cannot you at least pity
me for loving you thus?"
"Stay!" cried Oswald, seizing her in his arms, "this is too much.
Dearest, I cannot leave you!"
"Nay, you must," replied Corinne, recalled to herself by his words.
"My love," answered Oswald, trying to calm himself, "I shall strive
during my absence to restore to you your due rank in your father's
country. If I fail, I will return to Italy, and live or die at your
feet."
A light gleamed through the window, and the gondola that was to take
Oswald away stopped at the door.
"They are here--adieu--all is ended!" sobbed Corinne.
"Oh God! O my father!" he exclaimed, "what do ye exact of me?"
He flung himself once more into her arms and then, trembling and pale,
like one prepared for the torture, he passed from her sight.
On reaching England, he found that his regiment's departure had been
postponed, and, while waiting, he visited Northumberland, told Lady
Edgarmond of his affection for her stepdaughter, and demanded Corinne's
restoration to her rank. Lady Edgarmond unbendingly refused.
"I owe to your father's memory," she added, "my exertion to prevent your
union with her if I can. Your father's letter on the subject is in the
hands of his old friend, Mr. Dickson."
Oswald speedily set out for his ancestral estate in Scotland, anxious to
see Mr. Dickson and read the letter. In Northumberland he had seen
Lucy--a beautiful and sweetly innocent girl, one whom he could plainly
see to be a maiden after his father's own heart.
His father's letter confirmed his worst fears. He had wholly disapproved
of Oswald's union with the girl who afterwards became Corinne. He had
thought her wholly unfitted for domestic English life, and had feared
that she would destroy his son's English character and transform him
into an Italian. Oswald was to be acquainted with his wishes if
necessary; he knew he would respect them.
The irresolution and unhappiness into which Oswald was plunged was
increased by the fact that his letters to Corinne received no replies.
Had her love ceased when his presence was removed? His friends told him
of the fickleness of Italian women, and he began to believe that she had
deserted him. The truth was that Corinne was not in Italy to receive his
letters. She had come to England.
Desolated by his absence, and alarmed by the tone of the letters from
him that had reached her, she had resolved to follow him. On arriving in
London, she had been seized by an illness which prevented her from
seeing him. On her recovery the people with whom she was staying took
her to the theatre where Mrs. Siddons was playing. Oswald was at the
theatre with Lady Edgarmond and Lucy. Corinne observed with a sinking
heart the delicate attention which Oswald paid to her half-sister.
She saw him next at a review, where he appeared at the head of his
regiment. After the march past, he escorted Lucy in a ride on horseback.
Corinne noted his kind solicitude, his promptitude when Lucy was in
danger, the tenderness with which he supported her. What more did
Corinne need to convince her of his love for Lucy?
That evening she went to his door, and learnt that he had left for
Scotland an hour earlier. She felt that she must see him again; so she,
also, departed for Scotland.
Lady Edgarmond gave a ball on her Scottish estate, and among the guests
was Oswald, whose home was near at hand. In the grounds lurked Corinne,
seeking an opportunity of meeting her lover. In the midst of the
festivities, a white-clad figure hurried out alone; Corinne knew it to
be her half-sister. Lucy, believing that no eye was upon her, knelt down
in the grove where stood her father's tomb. "Pray for me, O my father!"
she said; "inspire him to choose me as the partner of his life! Oh God,
render me worthy of the love of Oswald!"
"Grant her prayer," whispered Corinne, "and give her sister a peaceful
grave."
She drew out the ring that Oswald had given her, and wrapped it in a
piece of paper on which she wrote the words, "You are free." She thrust
this into the hand of a man near the house with a request that he should
hand it to a servant to be delivered to Lord Nevil. She saw the man give
it to a servant. Then she fled.
-V.--The Clouded Moon-
To Oswald's assured knowledge of his father's wishes, and his fear that
Corinne had been untrue to him, had been added a third consideration,
Lady Edgarmond's health was rapidly declining, and when she died Lucy
would be unprotected in the world. Was it not his duty to protect her?
He resolved to undertake the duty, if he could only be free from his
promise to Corinne.
When his freedom came, with the mysterious return of the ring, all his
doubts were removed. Soon afterwards he married Lucy, and after a short
interval--during which he felt intense anxiety as to whether he had not
wronged Corinne--he went with his regiment to the West Indies.
Ere she had left Scotland, Corinne had heard the announcement of the
proposed marriage. She retired to Florence, and dwelt there in unending
misery. Her poetic faculty, her love of the arts, could not console her,
for they were utterly subjugated by her despair. Her whole soul had been
given to her love for Oswald. And when he had forsaken her, her life had
been broken by the blow.
It was four years ere Oswald returned to England, and soon afterwards he
and Lucy were summoned to the deathbed of Lady Edgarmond. He now had a
dangerous illness; in his delirium he cried for the southern sun. Lucy
heard him, and remembered Corinne. Oswald had striven to forget his
former passion, but could not help at times contrasting Corinne's warmth
of feeling with Lucy's coldness. Lucy had been taught by her mother that
it was immodest to avow affection even for a husband. She loved Oswald,
but her pride concealed her love.
Oswald was ordered to Italy by his physicians, and his wife and child
accompanied him. At Milan the earth was snow-covered; beyond there, the
rivers were in flood, and the land was covered by cold, damp fog.
"Where is your lovely Italy?" asked Lucy.
"I know not where or when I shall regain her," sadly answered Oswald. As
he approached Florence, where he had heard that Corinne was dwelling,
his heart became terribly agitated. He had learnt, through his old
friend d'Erfeuil, that Corinne had been faithful to him, that she had
followed him to England, and sought to see him, that he and not she was
the betrayer.
On arriving at Florence, Oswald met Prince Castel Forte, whose faithful,
unrewarded homage to Corinne was still unchanged. Corinne, the Prince
told him, was ill and growing weaker every day. Oswald's desertion, he
said plainly, had mortally wounded her.
Oswald, dismally repentant, handed Castel Forte a letter to Corinne in
which he begged permission to see her. In answer she declined the
permission, but asked to see his wife and child.
The little girl was taken to her; Lucy had resolved not to go, but was
struck with fear lest the child's affection should be won away from her.
She went at length, determined to reproach Corinne, but all her anger
vanished at the sight of the wasted woman on the sickbed. The sisters
embraced in tears.
Castel Forte had told Corinne of the reserve and coldness that separated
Lucy from her husband. Her last wish was to reconcile them, and thus aid
by means of another, the happiness of the man she loved.
"Pride not yourself in your perfections, dear sister," she said; "let
your charm consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne and Lucy in
one; let not grace be injured by self-respect."
Lucy bore her words in mind; the barriers between herself and her
husband were gradually removed, and Oswald guessed who was removing
them.
At last the end came. Corinne lay on a sofa, where she could gaze upon
the sky. Castel Forte held her dying hand. Lucy entered; behind her came
Oswald. He fell at her feet. She would have spoken, but her voice
failed. She looked up--the moon was covered by just such a cloud as they
had seen at Naples. Corinne pointed to it--one sigh--and her hand sank
powerless in death.
* * * * *
STENDHAL (HENRI BEYLE)
The Chartreuse of Parma
Stendhal is the best-known pseudonym (for there were others)
of the refined, somewhat eccentric, and still distinguished
French author whose real name was C. Marie Henri Beyle. Born
at Grenoble on January 23, 1783, he found his way as a youth
to Milan, and fought with Bonaparte at Marengo. Afterwards he
followed various occupations at Paris and Marseilles; went
through the Russian campaign of 1812; and returned to Italy,
where he began to establish a reputation as a critic of music
and of painting. "La Chartreuse de Parme," his most successful
work of fiction, was written in the winter of 1830. Like his
other novels, it is discursive and formless; but is considered
remarkable alike for its keenness of analysis and its
exposition of the acid, materialistic philosophy of its
author. A friend of that other eclectic, Mérimée, Stendhal was
not much thought of in his own time until the profound praises
of Balzac drew all eyes upon him; and in much more recent
times interest in the best of his writings has revived on
account of his keen and impartial analysis of whatever subject
he touched upon. Beyle died on March 22, 1842.
-I. Fabrice del Dongo-
"Three members of your family," said Count Mosca to the Duchess of
Sanseverina, "have been Archbishops of Parma. Could a better career be
open to your nephew Fabrice?"
The Duchess disliked the notion; and indeed Fabrice del Dongo seemed a
person but little fitted for an ecclesiastical career. His ambitions
were military; his hero was Napoleon. The great escapade of his life had
been a secret journey into France to fight at Waterloo. His father, the
Marquis del Dongo, was loyal to the Austrian masters of Lombardy; and
during Fabrice's absence his elder brother Arcanio had laid an
information against him as a conspirator against Austrian rule.
Consequently Fabrice, on his return, found himself exposed to the risk
of ten years in an Austrian prison. By his own address and by the good
offices of his aunt, the Countess Pietravera, Fabrice was able to escape
from Milanese territory.
Immediately afterwards the Countess wedded the aged and wealthy Duke of
Sanseverina, and transferred her beauty and unbounded social talents
from Milan to the court of Prince Ranuce Ernest IV., absolute ruler of
Parma. The Duke had his ambitions gratified by an appointment as
Ambassador to a distant country; the Duchess, left behind at Parma, was
able to devote herself to the interests of Count Mosca, the Prince's
chief Minister, and to counteract the intrigues of the celebrated
Marchioness Raversi, head of the party that sought to overthrow him.
The welfare of her beloved nephew was the most cherished of all the
Duchess's aims, and she succeeded in inspiring Count Mosca with an equal
enthusiasm for the prosperity of that errant youth. But she hesitated
over the project of making him an Archbishop.
"You must understand," explained the Count, "that I do not intend to
make Fabrice an exemplary priest of the conventional kind. No, he will
above all remain a great noble; he may continue to be absolutely
ignorant if he so pleases, and will become a Bishop and an Archbishop
just the same--provided, of course, that I succeed in retaining the
Prince's confidence."
Ultimately the Duchess agreed, and undertook to persuade Fabrice to
enter the Church. The persuasion was not easy; but at length Fabrice,
having been convinced that the clerical yoke would bear but lightly upon
him, consented to the step, and as a preliminary spent three years in a
theological college at Naples.
When at the end of the three years Fabrice, now a Monsignore, returned
to Parma, matters there were at a crisis; the Raversi party were gaining
ground, and Count Mosca was in danger. Nor did the Prince's interview
with the young cleric improve matters. Ranuce Ernest IV. had two ruling
passions--an ambition to become ruler of united Italy, and a fear of
revolution. Count Mosca, the diplomatist, was the only man who could
further his hopes in the one direction; his fears in the other were
carefully kept alive by Rassi, the fiscal-general--to such an extent
that each night the Prince looked under his bed to see if by chance a
liberal were lurking there. Rassi was a man of low origin, who kept his
place partly by submitting good-humouredly to the abuse and even the
kicks of his master, and partly by rousing that master's alarms and
afterwards allaying them by hanging or imprisoning liberals, with the
ready assistance of a carefully corrupted judicial bench.
Towards this nervous Prince, Fabrice bore himself with an aristocratic
assurance, and a promptness and coolness in conversation that made a bad
impression. His political notions were correct enough, according to the
Prince's standard; but plainly, he was a man of spirit, and the Prince
did not like men of spirit; they were all cousins-germane of Voltaire
and Rousseau. He deemed Fabrice, in short, a potential if not an actual
liberal, and therefore dangerous.
Nevertheless Count Mosca carried the day against his rivals--a triumph
due less to his own efforts than to those of the Duchess, to whose
charms as the court's chief ornament the Prince was far from
insusceptible. The Count's success was Fabrice's; that youth found
himself established as co-adjutor to the Archbishop of Parma, with a
reversion to the Archbishopric on the demise of its worthy occupant.
On Fabrice's return from Naples, the Duchess had found him developed
from a boy into a young man, and the handsomest young man in Italy; her
affection for him became sisterly; she was nearly in love with him. She
had no cause for jealousy, for Fabrice, although prone to flirtation,
had no affairs of the heart. The word love, as yet, had no meaning for
him.
-II.--Giletti-
One of our hero's flirtations had consequences with a very pronounced
bearing on his after career. During a surreptitious visit to the theatre
he became captivated with the actress, Marietta Valserra. Stolen visits
of two minutes duration to Marietta's lodging on the fourth floor of an
old house behind the theatre were an agreeable variation of the monotony
of Fabrice's clerical duties, and of his visits among the most important
and least entertaining families in Parma. But the trifling little
intrigue came to the ears of Count Mosca, with the result that the
travelling company to which Marietta belonged received its passports and
was requested to move on.
In the affair, moreover, Fabrice had a rival. Giletti was the low
comedian of the company, and the ugliest member of it; he assumed
proprietorship over Marietta, who, although she did not love him, was at
any rate horribly afraid of him. Giletti several times threatened to
kill Fabrice; whereby Fabrice was not disturbed.
Count Mosca was passionately archaeological, and this taste he shared
with Fabrice, who had cultivated the hobby at Naples. It so happened
that the two were engaged in excavations near the bridge over the Po
where the main road passes into Austrian territory at Castel-Maggiore.
Early one morning Fabrice, after surveying the work that was going on in
the trenches, strolled away with a gun, intent upon lark-shooting. A
wounded bird dropped on the road; and as Fabrice followed it he
encountered a battered old carriage driving towards the frontier. In it
were Giletti, Marietta and an old woman who passed as Marietta's mother.
Giletti leapt to the conclusion that Fabrice had come there, gun in
hand, to insult him, and possibly to carry off Marietta. He leapt out of
the carriage.
"Brigand!" he yelled, "we are only a league from the frontier--now I can
finish you!"
Fabrice saw a pistol levelled at him at a distance of three feet; he
knocked it aside with the butt of his gun, and it went off harmlessly.
Giletti then clutched the gun; the two men wrestled for it, and it
exploded close to Giletti's ear. Staggered for an instant, he quickly
recovered himself; drawing from its sheath a "property" sword, he fell
once more upon Fabrice.
"Look out! he will kill you," came an agitated whisper from Marietta;
"take this!"
A sort of hunting knife was flung out of the carriage door. Fabrice
picked it up, and was nearly stunned forthwith by a blow from the handle
of the "property" sword. Happily Giletti was too near to use his
sword-point. Pulling himself together, Fabrice gave his enemy a gash on
the thigh. Giletti, swearing furiously, injured Fabrice on the cheek.
Blood poured down our hero's face. The thought, "I am disfigured for
life!" flashed through his mind. Enraged at the idea, he thrust the
hunting knife at Giletti's breast with all his force. Giletti fell and
lay motionless.
"He is dead!" said Fabrice to himself. Then, turning to the coach, he
asked, "Have you a looking-glass?"
His eyes and teeth were undamaged; he was not permanently disfigured.
Hastily, then, he turned to thoughts of escape. Marietta gave him
Giletti's passport; obviously his first business was to get across the
frontier. And yet the Austrian frontier was no safe one for him to
cross. Were he recognised, he might expect ten years in an Imperial
fortress. But this was the less immediate danger, and he determined to
risk it.
With considerable trepidation he walked across the bridge, and presented
Giletti's passport to the Austrian gendarme.
The gendarme looked at it, and rose, "You must wait, monsieur; there is
a difficulty," he said, and left the room. Fabrice was profoundly
uncomfortable; he was nearly for bolting, when he heard the gendarme say
to another, "I am done up with the heat; just go and put your visa on a
passport in there when you have finished your pipe; I'm going for some
coffee."
This gendarme, in fact, knew Giletti, and was quite well aware that the
man before him was not the actor. But, for all he could tell, Giletti
had lent the passport for reasons of his own. The easiest way out of the
difficulty was to get another gendarme to see to the visa. This man
affixed it as a matter of course, and Fabrice escaped danger number one.
The rest was very easy, thanks to Ludovico, an old servant of the
Duchess, whom Fabrice met at an eating-house where he had turned in for
some very necessary refreshment. With the aid of this excellent fellow
Fabrice had his wounds attended to, and was safely smuggled out of
Austrian territory into Bologna.
-III.--The Citadel-
The party opposed to Count Mosca hastened to take advantage of Fabrice's
offence. He was represented as a murderer; the workmen in the trenches
who had seen the affray, and knew that Fabrice had acted in
self-defence, were either bribed or got out of the way. Rassi accused
Fabrice of being a liberal; and since the Prince was ill-disposed
towards the young man, not all the endeavours of Count Mosca could save
him from a sentence of twenty years' imprisonment, should he be so
impudent as to venture upon the territory of Parma.
Just before the sentence was presented to the Prince for final
confirmation, the Prince learnt that the Duchess of Sanseverina sought
an audience with him. He rubbed his hands; the greatest beauty of his
court had come to beg mercy for her nephew; there would be tears and
frantic appeals. For a quarter of an hour the Prince gloated over the
prospect; then he ordered that the Duchess be admitted.
She entered--in travelling costume; never had she looked more charming,
never more cheerful. "I trust your Serene Highness will pardon my
unorthodox costume," she said, smiling archly; "but as I am about to
leave Parma for a very long time, I have felt it my duty to come and
thank you ere I go for all the kindnesses you have deigned to confer
upon me."
The Prince was astonished and profoundly chagrined. "Why are you going?"
he asked, as calmly as he could.
"I have had the project for some time," she replied, "and a little
insult paid to Monsignor del Dongo has hastened it."
The Prince was beside himself. What would his court be without the
Duchess? At all costs he must check her flight.
At this moment Count Mosca, pale with anxiety, begged admittance. He had
just heard of the Duchess's intention to leave Parma.
"Let me speak as a friend to friends," said the Prince, collecting
himself; "what can I do, Madame, to arrest your hasty resolution?"
"If your highness were to write a gracious letter revoking the unjust
sentence upon Fabrice del Dongo, I might re-consider my decision; and,
let me add, if the Marchioness Raversi were advised by you to retire to
the country early to-morrow morning for the benefit of her health--"
"Was there ever such a woman?" cried the Prince, stamping up and down
the room.
But he agreed. At his orders Count Mosca sat down and wrote the letter
required. The Prince objected to the phrase "unjust sentence," and Count
Mosca, courtier-like, abstained from using it. The Prince did not mind
the banishment of the Marchioness Raversi; he liked exiling people.
At seven o'clock next morning the Prince summoned Rassi, and dictated to
him another letter. The sentence of twenty years, upon the criminal del
Dongo was to be reduced by the Prince's clemency, at the supplication of
the Duchess Sanseverina, to twelve years; and the police were instructed
to do their utmost to arrest the offender.
The only difficulty was that of tempting Fabrice into the territory of
Parma. A hint to the Marchioness Raversi and her associates removed the
obstacle. A forged letter, purporting to be from the Duchess, reached
Fabrice at Bologna, telling him that there would be little danger in his
meeting her at Castelnovo, within the frontier. Fabrice repaired
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