Corinne, Volume 1 (of 2)

by Madame de Staël

  Chapter iii.

  Corinne arose when the Prince Castel-Forte had ceased speaking; shethanked him by an inclination of the head so dignified yet so gentle,that it expressed at once the modesty and joy so natural at havingreceived praise according to her heart's desire. It was the custom thatevery poet crowned at the Capitol should recite or extemporise somepiece of poetry, before the destined laurel was placed on his head.Corinne ordered her lyre to be brought to her--the instrument of herchoice--which greatly resembled the harp, but was however more antiquein form and more simple in its sounds. In tuning it she was seized withuncommon timidity, and it was with a trembling voice that she asked toknow the subject imposed on her. "_The glory and happiness of Italy!_"cried all around her with a unanimous voice. "Very well," replied shealready fired with enthusiasm, already supported by her genius, "_theglory and happiness of Italy_;" and feeling herself animated by the loveof her country she commenced the most charming strains, of which prosecan give but a very imperfect idea.

  * * * * *

  _The Improvisation of Corinne, at the Capitol._

  "Italy, empire of the sun! Italy, mistress of the world! Italy, thecradle of letters, I salute thee! How often has the human race beensubjected to thee, tributary to thy arms, to thy art and to thy sky.

  "A deity quitted Olympus to take refuge in Ausonia; the aspect of thiscountry recalled the virtues of the golden age;--man appeared there toohappy to be supposed guilty.

  "Rome conquered the universe by her genius, and became sovereign byliberty. The Roman character was imprinted everywhere, and the invasionof the Barbarians, in destroying Italy obscured the whole world.

  "Italy appeared again with the divine treasures which the fugitiveGreeks brought back to her bosom; heaven revealed its laws to her; thedaring of her children discovered a new hemisphere; she again becamesovereign by the sceptre of thought, but this laurelled sceptre onlyproduced ingratitude.

  "Imagination restored to her the universe which she had lost. Thepainters and the poets created for her an earth, an Olympus, a hell, anda heaven; and her native fire, better guarded by her genius than by thePagan deity, found not in Europe a Prometheus to ravish it from her.

  "Why am I at the Capitol? Why is my humble forehead about to receive thecrown which Petrarch, has worn, and which remained suspended on thegloomy cypress that weeps over the tomb of Tasso?--Why, if you were notso enamoured of glory, my fellow-countrymen, that you recompense itsworship as much as its success?

  "Well, if you so love this glory which too often chooses its victimsamong the conquerors which it has crowned, reflect with pride upon thoseages which beheld the new birth of the arts. Dante, the modern Homer,the hero of thought, the sacred poet of our religious mysteries, plungedhis genius into the Styx to land in the infernal regions, and his mindwas profound as the abyss which he has described.

  "Italy in the days of her power was wholly revived in Dante. Animated bya republican spirit, warrior as well as poet, he breathed the flame ofaction among the dead; and his shadows have a more vivid existence thanthe living here below.

  "Terrestrial remembrances pursue them still; their aimless passionsdevour one another in the heart; they are moved at the past which seemsto them less irrevocable than their eternal future.

  "One would say that Dante, banished from his country, has transportedinto imaginary regions the pangs which devoured him. His shadesincessantly demand news from the scene of mortal existence, as the poethimself eagerly enquires after his native country; and hell presentsitself to him in the form of exile.

  "All, in his eyes, are clothed in the costume of Florence. The ancientdead whom he invokes, seem to be born again as completely Tuscan ashimself. It was not that his mind was limited--it was the energy of hissoul, that embraced the whole universe within the circle of histhoughts.

  "A mystical chain of circles and of spheres conducts him from hell topurgatory, from purgatory to paradise. Faithful historian of his vision,he pours a flood of light upon the most obscure regions, and the worldwhich he creates in his triple poem is as complete, as animated and asbrilliant as a planet newly-discovered in the firmament.

  "At his voice the whole earth assumes a poetical form, its objects,ideas, laws and phenomena, seem a new Olympus of new deities; but thismythology of the imagination is annihilated, like paganism, at theaspect of paradise, of that ocean of light, sparkling with rays and withstars, with virtues and with love.

  "The magic words of our great poet are the prism of the universe; allits wonders are there reflected, divided, and recomposed; sounds imitatecolours, and colours are blended in harmony; rhyme, sonorous or bizarre,rapid or prolonged, is inspired by this poetical divination; supremebeauty of art! triumph of genius! which discovers in nature every secretin affinity with the heart of man.

  "Dante hoped from his poem the termination of his exile; he reckoned onFame as his mediator; but he died too soon to receive the palm of hiscountry. Often is the fleeting life of man worn out in adversity! and ifglory triumph, if at length he land upon a happier shore, he no soonerenters the port than the grave yawns before him, and destiny, in athousand shapes, often announces the end of life by the return ofhappiness.

  "Thus unfortunate Tasso, whom your homage, Romans, was to console forall the injustice he had suffered; Tasso, the handsome, the gentle, theheroic, dreaming of exploits, feeling the love which he sang, approachedthese walls as his heroes did those of Jerusalem--with respect andgratitude. But on the eve of the day chosen for his coronation, Deathclaimed him for its terrible festival: Heaven is jealous of earth, andrecalls her favourites from the treacherous shores of Time!

  "In an age more proud and more free than that of Tasso, Petrarch was,like Dante, the valorous poet of Italian independence. In other climeshe is only known by his amours,--here, more severe recollectionsencircle his name with never-fading honour; for it is known that he wasinspired by his country more than by Laura herself.

  "He re-animated antiquity by his vigils; and, far from his imaginationraising any obstacle to the most profound studies, its creative power,in submitting the future to his will, revealed to him the secrets ofpast ages. He discovered how greatly knowledge assists invention; andhis genius was so much the more original, since, like the eternalforces, he could be present at all periods of time.

  "Ariosto derived inspiration from our serene atmosphere, and ourdelicious climate. He is the rainbow which appeared after our long wars;brilliant and many-hued, like that herald of fine weather, he seems tosport familiarly with life; his light and gentle gaiety is the smile ofnature and not the irony of man.

  "Michael Angelo, Raphael, Pergolese, Galileo, and you, intrepidtravellers, greedy of new countries, though nature could offer nothingfiner than your own, join your glory also to that of the poets. Artists,scholars, philosophers! you are, like them, the children of that sunwhich by turns developes the imagination, animates thought, excitescourage, lulls us into a happy slumber, and seems to promise everything,or cause it to be forgotten.

  "Do you know that land where the Orange-trees bloom, which the rays ofheaven make fertile with love? Have you heard those melodious soundswhich celebrate the mildness of the nights? Have you breathed thoseperfumes which are the luxury of that air, already so pure and so mild?Answer, strangers; is nature in your countries so beautiful and sobeneficent?

  "In other regions, when social calamities afflict a country, the peoplemust believe themselves abandoned by the Deity; but here we ever feelthe protection of heaven; we see that he interests himself for man, thathe has deigned to treat him as a noble being.

  "It is not only with vine branches, and with ears of corn, that Natureis here adorned; she prodigally strews beneath the feet of man, as onthe birthday of a sovereign, an abundance of useless plants and flowers,which, destined to please, will not stoop to serve.

  "The most delicate pleasures nourished by nature are enjoyed by a nationworthy of them--a nation who are satisfied with the most simple di
shes;who do not become intoxicated at the fountains of wine which plentyprepares for them;--a nation who love their sun, their arts, theirmonuments, their country, at once antique and in the spring of youth;--anation that stand equally aloof from the refined pleasures of luxury, asfrom the gross and sordid pleasures of a mercenary people."

  "Here sensations are confounded with ideas; life is drawn in all itsfulness from the same spring, and the soul, like the air, inhabits theconfines of earth, and of heaven. Genius is untrammelled because herereverie is sweet: its holy calm soothes the soul when perturbed,lavishes upon it a thousand illusions when it regrets a lost purpose,and when oppressed by man nature is ready to welcome it."

  "Thus is our country ever beneficent, and her succouring hand healsevery wound. Here, even the pangs of the heart receive consolation, inadmiring a God of kindness, and penetrating the secrets of his love; thepassing troubles of our ephemeral life are lost in the fertile andmajestic bosom of the immortal universe."

  Corinne was interrupted, for some moments, by a torrent of applause.Oswald alone took no share in the noisy transports that surrounded him.He had leaned his head upon his hand, when Corinne said: "_Here, eventhe pangs of the heart receive consolation_;" and had not raised itsince. Corinne remarked it, and soon, from his features, the colour ofhis hair, his costume, his lofty figure, from his whole manner in short,she knew him for an Englishman: she was struck with his mourning habit,and the melancholy pictured in his countenance. His look, at that momentfixed upon her, seemed full of gentle reproaches; she guessed thethoughts that occupied his mind, and felt the necessity of satisfyinghim, by speaking of happiness with less confidence, by consecrating someverses to death in the midst of a festival. She then resumed her lyre,with this design, and having produced silence in the assembly, by themoving and prolonged sounds which she drew from her instrument, beganthus:

  "There are griefs however which our consoling sky cannot efface, but inwhat retreat can sorrow make a more sweet and more noble impression uponthe soul than here?

  "In other countries hardly do the living find space sufficient for theirrapid motions and their ardent desires; here, ruins, deserts anduninhabited palaces, afford an asylum for the shades of the departed. Isnot Rome now the land of tombs?

  "The Coliseum, the obelisks, all the wonders which from Egypt and fromGreece, from the extremity of ages, from Romulus to Leo X. are assembledhere, as if grandeur attracted grandeur, and as if the same spot was toenclose all that man could secure from the ravages of time; all thesewonders are consecrated to the monuments of the dead. Our indolent lifeis scarcely perceived, the silence of the living is homage paid to thedead; they endure and we pass away.

  "They only are honoured, they are still celebrated: our obscuredestinies serve only to heighten the lustre of our ancestors: ourpresent existence leaves nothing standing but the past; it will exact notribute from future recollections! All our masterpieces are the work ofthose who are no more, and genius itself is numbered among theillustrious dead.

  "Perhaps one of the secret charms of Rome, is to reconcile theimagination with the sleep of death. Here we learn resignation, andsuffer less pangs of regret for the objects of our love. The people ofthe south picture to themselves the end of life in colours less gloomythan the inhabitants of the north. The sun, like glory, warms even thetomb.

  "The cold and isolation of the sepulchre beneath our lovely sky, by theside of so many funereal urns, have less terrors for the human mind. Webelieve a crowd of spirits is waiting for our company; and from oursolitary city to the subterranean one the transition seems easy andgentle.

  "Thus the edge of grief is taken off; not that the heart becomesindifferent, or the soul dried up; but a more perfect harmony, a moreodoriferous air, mingles with existence. We abandon ourselves to naturewith less fear--to nature, of whom the Creator has said: 'Consider thelilies of the field; they toil not neither do they spin: yet I say untoyou that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one ofthese.'"

  Oswald was so ravished with these last strains, that he gave the mostlively testimonies of his admiration; and, upon this occasion, thetransports of the Italians themselves did not equal his. In fact, it wasto him more than to the Romans, that the second improvisation of Corinnewas directed.

  The greater part of the Italians have, in reading poetry, a kind ofsinging monotony, called _cantilene_, which destroys all emotion[5]. Itis in vain that the words vary--the impression remains the same; sincethe accent, more essential than even the words, hardly varies at all.But Corinne recited with a variety of tone, which did not destroy thesustained charm of the harmony;--it was like several different airsplayed on some celestial instrument.

  The tones of Corinne's voice, full of sensibility and emotion, giving,effect to the Italian language, so pompous and so sonorous, producedupon Oswald an impression entirely novel. The English prosody is uniformand veiled, its natural beauties are all of a sombre cast; its colouringhas been formed by clouds, and its modulation by the roaring of the sea;but when Italian words, brilliant as an Italian festival, resonant likethose instruments of victory, which have been compared to scarlet amongcolours; when these words, bearing the stamp of that joy which a fineclimate spreads through every heart, are pronounced in a moving voice,their lustre softened, their strength concentrated, the soul is affectedin a manner as acute as unforeseen. The intention of nature seemsbaffled, her benefits of no use, her offers rejected, and the expressionof pain, in the midst of so many enjoyments, astonishes and affects usmore deeply than the grief which is sung in those northern languageswhich it seems to inspire.

  FOOTNOTE:

  [5] We must expect from this censure upon the Italian mode ofdeclamation, the celebrated Monti, who recites verses as well as hecomposes them. It is really one of the greatest dramatic pleasures thatcan be experienced, to hear him recite the Episode of Ugolin, ofFrancesca da Rimini, the Death of Clorinda, &c.