(Lord Byron) George Gordon Byron - Life of Lord Byron, With His Letters And Journals, Vol. 5 (of 6)

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"Lord Byron," says a friend who was sometimes present at their
practising, "was the best marksman. Shelley, and Williams, and
Trelawney, often made as good shots as he--but they were not so certain;
and he, though his hand trembled violently, never missed, for he
calculated on this vibration, and depended entirely on his eye. Once
after demolishing his mark, he set up a slender cane, whose colour,
nearly the same as the gravel in which it was fixed, might well have
deceived him, and at twenty paces he divided it with his bullet. His joy
at a good shot, and his vexation at a failure, was great--and when we
met him on his return, his cold salutation, or joyous laugh, told the
tale of the day's success."

For the first time since his arrival in Italy, he now found himself
tempted to give dinner parties; his guests being, besides Count Gamba
and Shelley, Mr. Williams, Captain Medwin, Mr. Taafe, and Mr.
Trelawney;--and "never," as his friend Shelley used to say, "did he
display himself to more advantage than on these occasions; being at once
polite and cordial, full of social hilarity and the most perfect good
humour; never diverging into ungraceful merriment, and yet keeping up
the spirit of liveliness throughout the evening." About midnight his
guests generally left him, with the exception of Captain Medwin, who
used to remain, as I understand, talking and drinking with his noble
host till far into the morning; and to the careless, half mystifying
confidences of these nocturnal sittings, implicitly listened to and
confusedly recollected, we owe the volume with which Captain Medwin,
soon after the death of the noble poet, favoured the world.

On the subject of this and other such intimacies formed by Lord Byron,
not only at the period of which we are speaking, but throughout his
whole life, it would be difficult to advance any thing more judicious,
or more demonstrative of a true knowledge of his character, than is to
be found in the following remarks of one who had studied him with her
whole heart,--who had learned to regard him with the eyes of good sense,
as well as of affection, and whose strong love, in short, was founded
upon a basis the most creditable both to him and herself,--the being
able to understand him.[89]

"We continued in Pisa even more rigorously to absent ourselves from
society. However, as there were a good many English in Pisa, he could
not avoid becoming acquainted with various friends of Shelley, among
which number was Mr. Medwin. They followed him in his rides, dined with
him, and felt themselves happy, of course, in the apparent intimacy in
which they lived with so renowned a man; but not one of them was
admitted to any part of his friendship, which, indeed, he did not easily
accord. He had a great affection for Shelley, and a great esteem for his
character and talents; but he was not his friend in the most extensive
sense of that word. Sometimes, when speaking of his friends and of
friendship, as also of love, and of every other noble emotion of the
soul, his expressions might inspire doubts concerning his sentiments and
the goodness of his heart. The feeling of the moment regulated his
speech, and, besides, he liked to play the part of singularity,--and
sometimes worse,--more especially with those whom he suspected of
endeavouring to make discoveries as to his real character; but it was
only mean minds and superficial observers that could be deceived in him.
It was necessary to consider his actions to perceive the contradiction
they bore to his words: it was necessary to be witness of certain
moments, during which unforeseen and involuntary emotion forced him to
give himself entirely up to his feelings; and whoever beheld him then,
became aware of the stores of sensibility and goodness of which his
noble heart was full.

"Among the many occasions _I_ had of seeing him thus overpowered, I
shall mention one relative to his feelings of friendship. A few days
before leaving Pisa, we were one evening seated in the garden of the
Palazzo Lanfranchi. A soft melancholy was spread over his countenance;
he recalled to mind the events of his life; compared them with his
present situation, and with that which it might have been if his
affection for me had not caused him to remain in Italy, saying things
which would have made earth a paradise for me, but that even then a
presentiment that I should lose all this happiness tormented me. At this
moment a servant announced Mr. Hobhouse. The slight shade of melancholy
diffused over Lord Byron's face gave instant place to the liveliest joy;
but it was so great, that it almost deprived him of strength. A fearful
paleness came over his cheeks, and his eyes were filled with tears as he
embraced his friend. His emotion was so great that he was forced to sit
down.

"Lord Clare's visit also occasioned him extreme delight. He had a great
affection for Lord Clare, and was very happy during the short visit that
he paid him at Leghorn. The day on which they separated was a melancholy
one for Lord Byron. 'I have a presentiment that I shall never see him
more,' he said, and his eyes filled with tears. The same melancholy came
over him during the first weeks that succeeded to Lord Clare's
departure, whenever his conversation happened to fall upon this
friend."[90]

Of his feelings on the death of his daughter Allegra, this lady gives
the following account:--"On the occasion also of the death of his
natural daughter, I saw in his grief the excess of paternal kindness.
His conduct towards this child was always that of a fond father; but no
one would have guessed from his expressions that he felt this affection
for her. He was dreadfully agitated by the first intelligence of her
illness; and when afterwards that of her death arrived, I was obliged to
fulfil the melancholy task of communicating it to him. The memory of
that frightful moment is stamped indelibly on my mind. For several
evenings he had not left his house, I therefore went to him. His first
question was relative to the courier he had despatched for tidings of
his daughter, and whose delay disquieted him. After a short interval of
suspense, with every caution which my own sorrow suggested, I deprived
him of all hope of the child's recovery. 'I understand,' said he,--'it
is enough, say no more.' A mortal paleness spread itself over his face,
his strength failed him, and he sunk into a seat. His look was fixed,
and the expression such that I began to fear for his reason; he did not
shed a tear, and his countenance manifested so hopeless, so profound, so
sublime a sorrow, that at the moment he appeared a being of a nature
superior to humanity. He remained immovable in the same attitude for an
hour, and no consolation which I endeavoured to afford him seemed to
reach his ears, far less his heart. But enough of this sad episode, on
which I cannot linger, even after the lapse of so many years, without
renewing in my own heart the awful wretchedness of that day. He desired
to be left alone, and I was obliged to leave him. I found him on the
following morning tranquillised, and with an expression of religious
resignation on his features. 'She is more fortunate than we are,' he
said; 'besides, her position in the world would scarcely have allowed
her to be happy. It is God's will--let us mention it no more.' And from
that day he would never pronounce her name; but became more anxious
when he spoke of Ada,--so much so as to disquiet himself when the usual
accounts sent him were for a post or two delayed."[91]

The melancholy death of poor Shelley, which happened, as we have seen,
also during this period, seems to have affected Lord Byron's mind, less
with grief for the actual loss of his friend, than with bitter
indignation against those who had, through life, so grossly
misrepresented him; and never certainly was there an instance where the
supposed absence of all religion in an individual was assumed so eagerly
as an excuse for the absence of all charity in judging him. Though never
personally acquainted with Mr. Shelley, I can join freely with those who
most loved him in admiring the various excellences of his heart and
genius, and lamenting the too early doom that robbed us of the mature
fruits of both. His short life had been, like his poetry, a sort of
bright erroneous dream,--false in the general principles on which it
proceeded, though beautiful and attaching in most of the details. Had
full time been allowed for the "over-light" of his imagination to have
been tempered down by the judgment which, in him, was still in reserve,
the world at large would have been taught to pay that high homage to his
genius which those only who saw what he was capable of can now be
expected to accord to it.

It was about this time that Mr. Cowell, paying a visit to Lord Byron at
Genoa, was told by him that some friends of Mr. Shelley, sitting
together one evening, had seen that gentleman, distinctly, as they
thought, walk into a little wood at Lerici, when at the same moment, as
they afterwards discovered, he was far away in quite a different
direction. "This," added Lord Byron, in a low, awe-struck tone of
voice, "was but ten days before poor Shelley died."

[Footnote 89: My poor Zimmerman, who now will understand thee?"--such
was the touching speech addressed to Zimmerman by his wife, on her
death-bed; and there is implied in these few words all that a man of
morbid sensibility must be dependant for upon the tender and
self-forgetting tolerance of the woman with whom he is united.]

[Footnote 90: "In Pisa abbiamo continuato anche piu rigorosaraente a
vivere lontano dalla societa. Essendosi pero in Pisa molti Inglesi egli
non pote escusarsi dal fare la conoscenza di varii amici di Shelley, fra
i quali uno fu Mr. Medwin. Essi lo seguitavano al passeggio, pranzavono
con lui e certamente si tenevano felici della apparente intimita che
loro accordava un uomo cosi superiore. Ma nessuno di loro fu ammesso mai
a porta della sua amicizia, che egli non era facile a accordare. Per
Shelley egli aveva dell' affezione, e molta stima pel suo carattere e
pel suo talento, ma non era suo amico nel estensione del senso che si
deva dare alla parola amicizia. Talvolta parlando egli de' suoi amici, e
dell' amicizia, come pure dell' amore, e di ogni altro nobile sentimento
dell' anima, potevano i suoi discorsi far nascere dei dubbii sui veri
suoi sentimenti, e sulla bonta del suo core. Una impressione momentanea
regolava i suoi discorsi; e di piu egli amava anche a rappresentare un
personaggio bizzarro, e qualche volta anche peggio,--specialmente con
quelli che egli pensava volessero studiare e fare delle scoperte sul suo
carattere. Ma nell' inganno non poteva cadere che una piccola mente, e
un osservatore superficiale. Bisognava esaminare le sue azioni per
sentire tutta le contraddizione che era fra di esse e i suoi discorsi;
bisognava vederlo in certi momenti in cui per una emozione improvisa e
piu forte della sua volonta la sua anima si abbandonava interamente a se
stessa;--bisognava vederlo allora per scoprire i tesori di sensibilita e
di bonta che erano in quella nobile anima.

"Fra le tante volte che io l'ho veduto in simili circostanze ne
ricordero una che risguarda i suoi sentimenti di amicizia. Pochi giorni
prima di lasciare Pisa eravamo verso sera insieme seduti nel giardino
del Palazzo Lanfranchi. Una dolce malinconia era sparsa sul suo viso.
Egli riandava col pensiero gli avvenimenti della sua vita e faceva il
confronto colle attuale sue situazione e quella che avrebbe potuta
essere se la sua affezione per me non lo avesse fatto restare in Italia;
e diceva cose che avrebbero resa per me la terra un paradiso, se giA
sino d'allora il pressentimento di perdere tanta felicita non mi avesse
tormentata. In questo mentre un domestico annuncio Mr. Hobhouse. La
leggiera tinta di malinconia sparsa sul viso di Byron fece, luogo
subitamente alia piu viva gioia; ma essa fu cosi forte che gli tolse
quasi le forze. Un pallore commovente ricoperse il suo volto, e nell'
abbracciare il suo amico i suoi occhi erano pieni di lacrime di
contento. E l'emozione fu cosi forte che egli fu obbligato di sedersi,
sentendosi mancare le forze.

"La venuta pure di Lord Clare fu per lui un epoca di grande felicita.
Egli amava sommamente Lord Clare--egli era cosi felice in quel breve
tempo che passo presso di lui a Livorno, e il giorno in cui si
separarono fu un giorno di grande tristezza per Lord Byron. 'Io ho il
pressentimento che non lo vedro piu,' diceva egli; e i suoi occhi si
riempirano di lacrime; e in questo stato l'ho veduto per varii
settimanie dopo la partenza di Lord Clare, ogni qual volta il discorso
cadeva sopra di codesto il suo amico."]

[Footnote 91: "Nell' occasione pure della morire della sua figlia
naturale io ho veduto nel suo dolore tuttocio che vi e di piu profondo
nella tenerezza paterna. La sua condotta verso di codesta fanciulla era
stata sempre quella del padre il piu amoroso; ma dalle di lui parole non
si sarebbe giudicato che avesse tanta affezione per lei. Alia prima
notizia della di lei malattia egli fu sommamente agitato; giunse poi la
notizia della morte, ed io dovessi esercitare il tristo uficio di
participarla a Lord Byron. Quel sensibile momenta sara indelebile nella
mia memoria. Egli non usciva da varii giorni la sera: io andai dunque da
lui. La prima domauda che egli mi fece fu relativa al Corriere che egli
aveva spedito per avere notizie della sua figlia, e di cui il retardo lo
inquietava. Dopo qualche momento di sospensione con tutta l'arte che
sapeva suggerirmi il mio proprio dotore gli tolsi ogni speranza della
guarizione della fanciulla. 'Ho inteso,' disse egli--'basta cosi--non
dite di piu'--e un pallore mortale si sparse sul suo volto; le forze gli
mancarono, e cadde sopra una sedia d'appoggio. Il suo sguardo era fisso
e tale che mi fece temere per la sua ragione. Egli rimase in quello
stato d'immobilita un' ora; e nessuna parola di consolazione che io
potessi indirezzargli pareva penetrare le sue orecchie non che il suo
core. Ma basta cosi di questa trista detenzione nella quale non posso
fermarmi dopo tanti anni senza risvegliare di nuovo nel mio animo le
terribile sofferenze di quel giorno. La mattina lo trovai tranquillo, e
con una espressione di religiosa rassegnazione nel suo volto. 'Ella e
piu felice di noi,' diss' egli--'d'altronde la sua situazione nel mondo
non le avrebbe data forse felicita. Dio ha voluto cosi--non ne parliamo
piu.' E da quel giorno in poi non ha piu voluto proferire il nome di
quella fanciulla. Ma e divenuto piu pensieroso parlando di Adda, al
punto di tormentarsi quando gli ritardavano di qualche ordinario le di
lei notizie."]

* * * * *

LETTER 504. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Genoa, October 9. 1822.

"I have received your letter, and as you explain it, I have no
objection, on _your_ account, to omit those passages in the new
Mystery (which were marked in the half-sheet sent the other day to
Pisa), or the passage in _Cain_;--but why not be open and say so at
_first_? You should be more straight-forward on every account.

"I have been very unwell--four days confined to my bed in 'the
worst inn's worst room,' at Lerici, with a violent rheumatic and
bilious attack, constipation, and the devil knows what: no
physician, except a young fellow, who, however, was kind and
cautious, and that's enough.

"At last I seized Thompson's book of prescriptions (a donation of
yours), and physicked myself with the first dose I found in it; and
after undergoing the ravages of all kinds of decoctions, sallied
from bed on the fifth day to cross the Gulf to Sestri. The sea
revived me instantly; and I ate the sailor's cold fish, and drank a
gallon of country wine, and got to Genoa the same night after
landing at Sestri, and have ever since been keeping well, but
thinner, and with an occasional cough towards evening.

"I am afraid the Journal _is a bad_ business, and won't do; but in
it I am sacrificing _myself_ for others--_I_ can have no advantage
in it. I believe the _brothers Hunts_ to be honest men; I am sure
that they are poor ones; they have not a nap. They pressed me to
engage in this work, and in an evil hour I consented. Still I shall
not repent, if I can do them the least service. I have done all I
can for Leigh Hunt since he came here; but it is almost
useless:--his wife is ill, his six children not very tractable, and
in the affairs of this world he himself is a child. The death of
Shelley left them totally aground; and I could not see them in such
a state without using the common feelings of humanity, and what
means were in my power, to set them afloat again.

"So Douglas Kinnaird is out of the way? He was so the last time I
sent him a parcel, and he gives no previous notice. When is he
expected again?

"Yours, &c.

"P.S. Will you say at once--do you publish Werner and the Mystery
or not? You never once allude to them.

"That curst advertisement of Mr. J. Hunt is out of the limits. I
did not lend him my name to be hawked about in this way.

"However, I believe--at least, hope--that after all you may be a
good fellow at bottom, and it is on this presumption that I now
write to you on the subject of a poor woman of the name of _Yossy_,
who is, or was, an author of yours, as she says, and published a
book on Switzerland in 1816, patronised by the 'Court and Colonel
M'Mahon.' But it seems that neither the Court nor the Colonel could
get over the portentous price of three pounds, thirteen, and
sixpence,' which alarmed the too susceptible public; and, in short,
'the book died away,' and, what is worse, the poor soul's husband
died too, and she writes with the man a corpse before her; but
instead of addressing the bishop or Mr. Wilberforce, she hath
recourse to that proscribed, atheistical, syllogistical,
phlogistical person, _mysen_, as they say in Notts. It is strange
enough, but the rascaille English who calumniate me in every
direction and on every score, whenever they are in great distress
recur to me for assistance. If I have had one example of this, I
have had letters from a thousand, and as far as is in my power have
tried to repay good for evil, and purchase a shilling's worth of
salvation as long as my pocket can hold out.

"Now, I am willing to do what I can for this unfortunate person;
but her situation and her wishes (not unreasonable, however,)
require more than can be advanced by one individual like myself;
for I have many claims of the same kind just at present, and also
some remnants of _debt_ to pay in England--God, he knows, the
_latter_ how reluctantly! Can the Literary Fund do nothing for her?
By your interest, which is great among the pious, I dare say that
something might be collected. Can you get any of her books
published? Suppose you took her as author in my place, now vacant
among your ragamuffins; she is a moral and pious person, and will
shine upon your shelves. But seriously, do what you can for her."

* * * * *

LETTER 505. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Genoa, 9bre 23. 1822.

"I have to thank you for a parcel of books, which are very welcome,
especially Sir Walter's gift of 'Halidon Hill.' You have sent me a
copy of 'Werner,' but _without_ the preface. If you have published
it _without_, you will have plunged me into a very disagreeable
dilemma, because I shall be accused of plagiarism from Miss Lee's
German's Tale, whereas I have fully and freely acknowledged that
the drama is entirely taken from the story.

"I return you the Quarterly Review, uncut and unopened, not from
disrespect or disregard or pique, but it is a kind of reading which
I have some time disused, as I think the periodical style of
writing hurtful to the habits of the mind, by presenting the
superfices of too many things at once. I do not know that it
contains any thing disagreeable to me--it may or it may not; nor do
I return it on account that there _may_ be an article which you
hinted at in one of your late letters, but because I have left off
reading these kind of works, and should equally have returned you
any other number.

"I am obliged to take in one or two abroad, because solicited to do
so. The Edinburgh came before me by mere chance in Galignani's
picnic sort of gazette, where he had inserted a part of it.

"You will have received various letters from me lately, in a style
which I used with reluctance; but you left me no other choice by
your absolute refusal to communicate with a man you did not like
upon the mere simple matter of transfer of a few papers of little
consequence (except to their author), and which could be of no
moment to yourself.

"I hope that Mr. Kinnaird is better. It is strange that you never
alluded to his accident, if it be true, as stated in the papers. I
am yours, &c. &c.

"I hope that you have a milder winter than we have had here. We
have had inundations worthy of the Trent or Po, and the conductor
(Franklin's) of my house was struck (or supposed to be stricken) by
a thunderbolt. I was so near the window that I was dazzled and my
eyes hurt for several minutes, and everybody in the house felt an
electric shock at the moment. Madame Guiccioli was frightened, as
you may suppose.

"I have thought since that your bigots would have 'saddled me with
a judgment' (as Thwackum did Square when he bit his tongue in
talking metaphysics), if any thing had happened of consequence.
These fellows always forget Christ in their Christianity, and what
he said when 'the tower of Siloam fell.'

"To-day is the 9th, and the 10th is my surviving daughter's
birth-day. I have ordered, as a regale, a mutton chop and a bottle
of ale. She is seven years old, I believe. Did I ever tell you that
the day I came of age I dined on eggs and bacon and a bottle of
ale? For once in a way they are my favourite dish and drinkable,
but as neither of them agree with me, I never use them but on great
jubilees--once in four or five years or so.

"I see somebody represents the Hunts and Mrs. Shelley as living in
my house: it is a falsehood. They reside at some distance, and I do
not see them twice in a month. I have not met Mr. Hunt a dozen
times since I came to Genoa, or near it.

"Yours ever," &c.

* * * * *

LETTER 506. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Genoa, 10bre 25 deg.. 1822.

"I had sent you back the Quarterly, without perusal, having
resolved to read no more reviews, good, bad, or indifferent; but
'who can control his fate?' Galignani, to whom my English studies
are confined, has forwarded a copy of at least one half of it in
his indefatigable catch-penny weekly compilation; and as, 'like
honour, it came unlooked for,' I have looked through it. I must say
that, upon the _whole_, that is, the whole of the _half_ which I
have read (for the other half is to be the segment of Galignani's
next week's circular), it is extremely handsome, and any thing but
unkind or unfair. As I take the good in good part, I must not, nor
will not, quarrel with the bad. What the writer says of Don Juan is
harsh, but it is inevitable. He must follow, or at least not
directly oppose, the opinion of a prevailing, and yet not very
firmly seated, party. A Review may and will direct and 'turn awry'
the currents of opinion, but it must not directly oppose them. Don
Juan will be known by and by, for what it is intended,--a _Satire_
on _abuses_ of the present states of society, and not an eulogy of
vice. It may be now and then voluptuous: I can't help that.
Ariosto is worse; Smollett (see Lord Strutwell in vol. 2d of
Roderick Random) ten times worse; and Fielding no better. No girl
will ever be seduced by reading Don Juan:--no, no; she will go to
Little's poems and Rousseau's _romans_ for that, or even to the
immaculate De Stael. They will encourage her, and not the Don, who
laughs at that, and--and--most other things. But never mind--_ca
ira!_

"Now, do you see what you and your friends do by your injudicious
rudeness?--actually cement a sort of connection which you strove to
prevent, and which, had the Hunts _prospered_, would not in all
probability have continued. As it is, I will not quit them in their
adversity, though it should cost me character, fame, money, and the
usual _et cetera_.

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