Chapter 1.VII. Upon Love and Lovers.
If, in adopting the legendary love tale of Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare
had changed the scene in which it is cast for a more northern clime, we may
doubt whether the art of Shakespeare himself could have reconciled us at
once to the suddenness and the strength of Juliet's passion. And, even as
it is, perhaps there are few of our rational and sober-minded islanders who
would not honestly confess, if fairly questioned, that they deem the
romance and fervour of those ill-starred lovers of Verona exaggerated and
over-drawn. Yet, in Italy, the picture of that affection born of a night -
but "strong as death" - is one to which the veriest commonplaces of life
would afford parallels without number. As in different ages, so in
different climes, love varies wonderfully in the shapes it takes. And even
at this day, beneath Italian skies, many a simple girl would feel as
Juliet, and many a homely gallant would rival the extravagance of Romeo.
Long suits in that sunny land, wherein, as whereof, I now write, are
unknown. In no other land, perhaps, is there found so commonly the love at
first sight, which in France is a jest, and in England a doubt; in no other
land, too, is love, though so suddenly conceived, more faithfully
preserved. That which is ripened in fancy comes at once to passion, yet is
embalmed through all time by sentiment. And this must be my and their
excuse, if the love of Adrian some too prematurely formed, and that of
Irene too romantically conceived; - it is the excuse which they take from
the air and sun, from the customs of their ancestors, from the soft
contagion of example. But while they yielded to the dictates of their
hearts, it was with a certain though secret sadness - a presentiment that
had, perhaps, its charm, though it was of cross and evil. Born of so proud
a race, Adrian could scarcely dream of marriage with the sister of a
plebeian; and Irene, unconscious of the future glory of her brother, could
hardly have cherished any hope, save that of being loved. Yet these
adverse circumstances, which, in the harder, the more prudent, the more
self-denying, perhaps the more virtuous minds, that are formed beneath the
northern skies, would have been an inducement to wrestle against love so
placed, only contributed to feed and to strengthen theirs by an opposition
which has ever its attraction for romance. They found frequent, though
short, opportunities of meeting - not quite alone, but only in the
conniving presence of Benedetta: sometimes in the public gardens,
sometimes amidst the vast and deserted ruins by which the house of Rienzi
was surrounded. They surrendered themselves, without much question of the
future, to the excitement - the elysium - of the hour: they lived but from
day to day; their future was the next time they should meet; beyond that
epoch, the very mists of their youthful love closed in obscurity and shadow
which they sought not to penetrate: and as yet they had not arrived at
that period of affection when there was danger of their fall, - their love
had not passed the golden portal where Heaven ceases and Earth begins.
Everything for them was the poetry, the vagueness, the refinement, - not
the power, the concentration, the mortality, - of desire! The look - the
whisper - the brief pressure of the hand, at most, the first kisses of
love, rare and few, - these marked the human limits of that sentiment which
filled them with a new life, which elevated them as with a new soul.
The roving tendencies of Adrian were at once fixed and centered; the dreams
of his tender mistress had awakened to a life dreaming still, but "rounded
with a truth." All that earnestness, and energy, and fervour of emotion,
which, in her brother, broke forth in the schemes of patriotism and the
aspirations of power, were, in Irene, softened down into one object of
existence, one concentration of soul, - and that was love. Yet, in this
range of thought and action, so apparently limited, there was, in reality,
no less boundless a sphere than in the wide space of her brother's many-
pathed ambition. Not the less had she the power and scope for all the
loftiest capacities granted to our clay. Equal was her enthusiasm for her
idol; equal, had she been equally tried, would have been her generosity,
her devotion: - greater, be sure, her courage; more inalienable her
worship; more unsullied by selfish purposes and sordid views. Time,
change, misfortune, ingratitude, would have left her the same! What state
could fall, what liberty decay, if the zeal of man's noisy patriotism were
as pure as the silent loyalty of a woman's love?
In them everything was young! - the heart unchilled, unblighted, - that
fulness and luxuriance of life's life which has in it something of divine.
At that age, when it seems as if we could never die, how deathless, how
flushed and mighty as with the youngness of a god, is all that our hearts
create! Our own youth is like that of the earth itself, when it peopled
the woods and waters with divinities; when life ran riot, and yet only gave
birth to beauty; - all its shapes, of poetry, - all its airs, the melodies
of Arcady and Olympus! The Golden Age never leaves the world: it exists
still, and shall exist, till love, health, poetry, are no more; but only
for the young!
If I now dwell, though but for a moment, on this interlude in a drama
calling forth more masculine passions than that of love, it is because I
foresee that the occasion will but rarely recur. If I linger on the
description of Irene and her hidden affection, rather than wait for
circumstances to portray them better than the author's words can, it is
because I foresee that that loving and lovely image must continue to the
last rather a shadow than a portrait, - thrown in the background, as is the
real destiny of such natures, by bolder figures and more gorgeous colours;
a something whose presence is rather felt than seen, and whose very harmony
with the whole consists in its retiring and subdued repose.
