Corinne, Volume 1 (of 2)

  Chapter i.

  Lord Nelville felt a lively desire that Mr Edgermond should enjoy theconversation of Corinne, which was more than equivalent to herimprovised verses. The following day the same company assembled at herhouse; and to elicit her sentiments, he turned the conversation uponItalian literature, and provoked her natural vivacity, by affirming thatthe English poets were much superior in energy and sensibility to thoseof which Italy could boast.

  "In the first place," said Corinne, "strangers are for the most partacquainted only with our poets of the first rank--Dante, Petrarch,Ariosto, Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio; whilst we have several others,such as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaja, Parini, without reckoningSannazarius, Politian, &c., who have written in Latin, with as muchtaste as genius; and all unite in their verses the utmost beauty ofcolouring and harmony; all, with more or less talent, adorn the wondersof nature and art with the imagery of speech. Without doubt our poetscannot pretend to that profound melancholy, that knowledge of the humanheart which characterise yours; but does not this kind of superioritybelong more properly to philosophical writers than to poets? Thebrilliant melody of Italian is more suitable to the splendour ofexternal objects than to meditation; our language is better adapted topaint fury than sadness, because sentiments which arise from deepreflection demand more metaphysical expressions, whilst the desire ofvengeance animates the imagination to the exclusion of grief. Cesarottihas produced the best and most elegant translation of Ossian extant; butit seems in reading it that the words possess in themselves an air offestivity that forms a contrast with the sombre ideas of the poem. Wecannot help being charmed with our sweet expressions,--_the limpidstream, the smiling plain, the cooling shade_, the same as with themurmur of the waves, and variety of colours. What more do you expectfrom poetry? Why would you ask of the nightingale, the meaning of hersong? She can only answer you by resuming the strain, and you cannotcomprehend it without yielding to the impression which it produces. Themeasure of verse, harmonious rhymes, and those rapid terminationscomposed of two short syllables whose sounds glide in the manner thattheir name (_Sdruccioli_) indicates, sometimes imitate the light stepsof a dance; at others, more sombre tones recall the fury of the tempestand the clangour of arms. In fact, our poetry is a wonder of theimagination--we must only seek it in the various pleasures which itaffords."

  "It must be allowed," replied Lord Nelville, "that you explain veryclearly the beauties and defects of your poetry; but how will you defendyour prose, in which those defects are to be found unaccompanied by thebeauties? That which is only loose and indefinite in poetry will becomeemptiness in prose; and the crowd of common ideas which your poetsembellish with their melody and their images, are in prose, cold anddry, while their vivacity of style renders them more fatiguing. Thelanguage of the greater part of the prose-writers of the present day isso declamatory, so diffuse, and so abundant in superlatives, that theirwork seems written to order, in hackneyed phraseology, and forconventional natures; it does not once enter into their heads that towrite well is to express one's thoughts and character. Their style is anartificial web, a kind of literary mosaic, every thing in fact that isforeign to their soul, and is made with the pen as any other mechanicalwork is with the fingers. They possess in the highest degree the secretof developing, commenting, inflating an idea, and, if I may use theexpression, of working a sentiment into a ferment. So much do they excelin this, that one would be tempted to ask these writers, what theAfrican woman asked a French lady, who wore a large pannier under a longdress:--'_Madam, is all that a part of yourself?_' In short, what realexistence is there in all this pomp of words which one true expressionwould dissipate like a vain prestige."

  "You forget," interrupted Corinne sharply; "first, Macchiavelli andBoccacio; next Gravina, Filangieri, and in our days, Cesarotti, Verri,Bettinelli, and so many others, in short, who know how to write and tothink[22]. But I agree with you that in the latter ages, unfortunatecircumstances having deprived Italy of its independence, its people havelost all interest in truth and often even the possibility of speakingit: from this has resulted the habit of sporting with words withoutdaring to approach a single idea. As they were certain of not being ableto obtain any influence over things by their writings, they were onlyemployed to display their wit, which is a sure way to end in having nowit at all; for it is only in directing the mind towards some nobleobject that ideas are acquired. When prose writers can no longer in anyway influence the happiness of a nation--when they only write todazzle--when, in fact, the road itself is the object of their journey,they indulge in a thousand windings without advancing a step. TheItalians, it is true, fear new thoughts; but that is an effect ofindolence, and not of literary baseness. In their character, theirgaiety, and their imagination, there is much originality; andnevertheless, as they take no pains to reflect, their general ideas donot soar above mediocrity; their eloquence even, so animated when theyspeak, has no character when they write; one would say that labour ofany kind freezes their faculties; it may also be added, that the nationsof the South are fettered by prose, and that poetry alone can expresstheir real sentiments. It is not thus in French literature," saidCorinne, addressing herself to the Count d'Erfeuil--"your prose writersare often more eloquent, and even more poetic, than your poets."--"It istrue," answered the Count, "your assertion can be verified by trulyclassical authorities:--Bossuet, La Bruyere, Montesquieu, and Buffon,cannot be excelled; more particularly the first two, who are of the ageof Louis the Fourteenth, in whose praise too much cannot be said, forthey are perfect models for imitation. They are models that foreignersought to be as eager to imitate as the French themselves."--"I canhardly think it desirable," answered Corinne, "for the whole worldentirely to lose their national colouring, as well as all originality ofsentiment and genius; and I am bold enough to tell you Count, that evenin your country, this literary orthodoxy, if I may so express myself,which is opposed to every innovation, will in time render yourliterature extremely barren. Genius is essentially creative; it bearsthe character of the individual that possesses it. Nature, who has notformed two leaves alike, has infused a still greater variety into thehuman soul; imitation is therefore a species of death, since it robseach one of his natural existence."

  "You would not wish, fair stranger," replied the Count, "that we shouldadmit Teutonic barbarism amongst us--that we should copy Young's NightThoughts, and the _Concetti_ of the Italians and Spaniards. What wouldbecome of the taste and elegance of our French style after such amixture?" Prince Castel-Forte, who had not yet spoken, said--"It seemsto me that we all stand in need of each other: the literature of everycountry discovers to him who is acquainted with it a new sphere ofideas. It was Charles the Fifth himself who said--that _a man who knowsfour languages, is worth four men_. If that great political geniusjudged thus, in regard to the conduct of affairs, how much more true isit with respect to literature? Foreigners all study French; thus theycommand a more extended horizon than you, who do not study foreignlanguages. Why do you not more often take the trouble of learningthem?--You would thus preserve your own peculiar excellence, andsometimes discover your deficiencies."

  FOOTNOTE:

  [22] Cesarotti, Verri, and Bettinelli, are three living authors who haveintroduced thought into Italian prose; it must be confessed, that thiswas not the case for a long time before.