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.

Book viii.

THE STATUES AND THE PICTURES.

[Illustration]

Chapter i.

After the day which had passed, Oswald could not close his eyes during the night.  He had never been so near sacrificing every thing to Corinne.  He did not even desire to know her secret; or rather, before he was acquainted with it, he wished to contract a solemn engagement, to consecrate his life to her.  For some hours uncertainty seemed banished from his mind; and he took pleasure in composing, in his thoughts, the letter which he should write to her on the morrow, and which would decide his fate.  But this confidence in happiness, this reliance upon resolution, was of no long duration.  His thoughts soon reverted to the past, he remembered that he had loved, much less, it is true, than he loved Corinne; and the object of his first choice could not be compared to her; but nevertheless it was this sentiment which had hurried him away to thoughtless actions, to actions which had torn the heart of his father.—­“Ah! who knows,” cried he, “whether he would not fear equally to-day, lest his son should forget his native country and the duties which he owes it?”

“Oh thou!” said he, addressing the portrait of his father, “thou, the best friend I shall ever have upon earth, I can no longer hear thy voice, but teach me by that silent look which yet retains such power over my soul, inform me what I am to do, that now at least in thy celestial abode, thou mayest be satisfied with the conduct of thy son!  Forget not, however, that need of happiness which consumes mortal man—­be indulgent in heaven, as thou wert upon earth!  I shall become better if I am allowed to taste of happiness; if I am permitted to live with this angelic creature, to have the honour of protecting, of saving such a woman.—­Of saving her?” continued he suddenly; “and from what?  From a life of homage, of fame, and of independence!”—­This reflection, which originated in himself, terrified him like an inspiration of his father.

In conflicts of sentiment, who has not felt that kind of secret superstition which makes us take our own thoughts for presages, and our sufferings for a warning from heaven?  Ah! how bitter is the struggle between passion and conscience, in susceptible minds!