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Thomas Moore - Life of Lord Byron, Vol. IV

T >> Thomas Moore >> Life of Lord Byron, Vol. IV




"When I first knew her, I was in 'relazione' (liaison) with la
Signora * *, who was silly enough one evening at Dolo, accompanied
by some of her female friends, to threaten her; for the gossips of
the villeggiatura had already found out, by the neighing of my
horse one evening, that I used to 'ride late in the night' to meet
the Fornarina. Margarita threw back her veil (fazziolo), and
replied in very explicit Venetian, '_You_ are _not_ his _wife_: _I_
am _not_ his _wife_: you are his Donna, and _I_ am his _Donna_:
your husband is a _becco_, and mine is another. For the rest, what
_right_ have you to reproach me? If he prefers me to you, is it my
fault? If you wish to secure him, tie him to your
petticoat-string.--But do not think to speak to me without a reply,
because you happen to be richer than I am.' Having delivered this
pretty piece of eloquence (which I translate as it was related to
me by a bystander), she went on her way, leaving a numerous
audience with Madame * *, to ponder at her leisure on the dialogue
between them.

"When I came to Venice for the winter, she followed; and as she
found herself out to be a favourite, she came to me pretty often.
But she had inordinate self-love, and was not tolerant of other
women. At the 'Cavalchina,' the masked ball on the last night of
the carnival, where all the world goes, she snatched off the mask
of Madame Contarini, a lady noble by birth, and decent in conduct,
for no other reason, but because she happened to be leaning on my
arm. You may suppose what a cursed noise this made; but this is
only one of her pranks.

"At last she quarrelled with her husband, and one evening ran away
to my house. I told her this would not do: she said she would lie
in the street, but not go back to him; that he beat her, (the
gentle tigress!) spent her money, and scandalously neglected her.
As it was midnight I let her stay, and next day there was no moving
her at all. Her husband came, roaring and crying, and entreating
her to come back:--_not_ she! He then applied to the police, and
they applied to me: I told them and her husband to _take_ her; I
did not want her; she had come, and I could not fling her out of
the window; but they might conduct her through that or the door if
they chose it. She went before the commissary, but was obliged to
return with that 'becco ettico,' as she called the poor man, who
had a phthisic. In a few days she ran away again. After a precious
piece of work, she fixed herself in my house, really and truly
without my consent; but, owing to my indolence, and not being able
to keep my countenance, for if I began in a rage, she always
finished by making me laugh with some Venetian pantaloonery or
another; and the gipsy knew this well enough, as well as her other
powers of persuasion, and exerted them with the usual tact and
success of all she-things; high and low, they are all alike for
that.

"Madame Benzoni also took her under her protection, and then her
head turned. She was always in extremes, either crying or laughing,
and so fierce when angered, that she was the terror of men, women,
and children--for she had the strength of an Amazon, with the
temper of Medea. She was a fine animal, but quite untameable. _I_
was the only person that could at all keep her in any order, and
when she saw me really angry (which they tell me is a savage
sight), she subsided. But she had a thousand fooleries. In her
fazziolo, the dress of the lower orders, she looked beautiful;
but, alas! she longed for a hat and feathers; and all I could say
or do (and I said much) could not prevent this travestie. I put the
first into the fire; but I got tired of burning them, before she
did of buying them, so that she made herself a figure--for they did
not at all become her.

"Then she would have her gowns with a _tail_--like a lady,
forsooth; nothing would serve her but 'l'abita colla _coua_,' or
_cua_, (that is the Venetian for 'la cola,' the tail or train,) and
as her cursed pronunciation of the word made me laugh, there was an
end of all controversy, and she dragged this diabolical tail after
her every where.

"In the mean time, she beat the women and stopped my letters. I
found her one day pondering over one. She used to try to find out
by their shape whether they were feminine or no; and she used to
lament her ignorance, and actually studied her alphabet, on purpose
(as she declared) to open all letters addressed to me and read
their contents.

"I must not omit to do justice to her housekeeping qualities. After
she came into my house as 'donna di governo,' the expenses were
reduced to less than half, and every body did their duty
better--the apartments were kept in order, and every thing and
every body else, except herself.

"That she had a sufficient regard for me in her wild way, I had
many reasons to believe. I will mention one. In the autumn, one
day, going to the Lido with my gondoliers, we were overtaken by a
heavy squall, and the gondola put in peril--hats blown away, boat
filling, oar lost, tumbling sea, thunder, rain in torrents, night
coming, and wind unceasing. On our return, after a tight struggle,
I found her on the open steps of the Mocenigo palace, on the Grand
Canal, with her great black eyes flashing through her tears, and
the long dark hair, which was streaming, drenched with rain, over
her brows and breast. She was perfectly exposed to the storm; and
the wind blowing her hair and dress about her thin tall figure, and
the lightning flashing round her, and the waves rolling at her
feet, made her look like Medea alighted from her chariot, or the
Sibyl of the tempest that was rolling around her, the only living
thing within hail at that moment except ourselves. On seeing me
safe, she did not wait to greet me, as might have been expected,
but calling out to me--'Ah! can' della Madonna, xe esto il tempo
per andar' al' Lido?' (Ah! dog of the Virgin, is this a time to go
to Lido?) ran into the house, and solaced herself with scolding the
boatmen for not foreseeing the 'temporale.' I am told by the
servants that she had only been prevented from coming in a boat to
look after me, by the refusal of all the gondoliers of the canal to
put out into the harbour in such a moment; and that then she sat
down on the steps in all the thickest of the squall, and would
neither be removed nor comforted. Her joy at seeing me again was
moderately mixed with ferocity, and gave me the idea of a tigress
over her recovered cubs.

"But her reign drew near a close. She became quite ungovernable
some months after, and a concurrence of complaints, some true, and
many false--'a favourite has no friends'--determined me to part
with her. I told her quietly that she must return home, (she had
acquired a sufficient provision for herself and mother, &c. in my
service,) and she refused to quit the house. I was firm, and she
went threatening knives and revenge. I told her that I had seen
knives drawn before her time, and that if she chose to begin, there
was a knife, and fork also, at her service on the table, and that
intimidation would not do. The next day, while I was at dinner, she
walked in, (having broken open a glass door that led from the hall
below to the staircase, by way of prologue,) and advancing straight
up to the table, snatched the knife from my hand, cutting me
slightly in the thumb in the operation. Whether she meant to use
this against herself or me, I know not--probably against
neither--but Fletcher seized her by the arms, and disarmed her. I
then called my boatmen, and desired them to get the gondola ready,
and conduct her to her own house again, seeing carefully that she
did herself no mischief by the way. She seemed quite quiet, and
walked down stairs. I resumed my dinner.

"We heard a great noise, and went out, and met them on the
staircase, carrying her up stairs. She had thrown herself into the
canal. That she intended to destroy herself, I do not believe; but
when we consider the fear women and men who can't swim have of deep
or even of shallow water, (and the Venetians in particular, though
they live on the waves,) and that it was also night, and dark, and
very cold, it shows that she had a devilish spirit of some sort
within her. They had got her out without much difficulty or damage,
excepting the salt water she had swallowed, and the wetting she had
undergone.

"I foresaw her intention to refix herself, and sent for a surgeon,
enquiring how many hours it would require to restore her from her
agitation; and he named the time. I then said, 'I give you that
time, and more if you require it; but at the expiration of this
prescribed period, if _she_ does not leave the house, _I_ will.'

"All my people were consternated. They had always been frightened
at her, and were now paralysed: they wanted me to apply to the
police, to guard myself, &c. &c. like a pack of snivelling servile
boobies as they were. I did nothing of the kind, thinking that I
might as well end that way as another; besides, I had been used to
savage women, and knew their ways.

"I had her sent home quietly after her recovery, and never saw her
since, except twice at the opera, at a distance amongst the
audience. She made many attempts to return, but no more violent
ones. And this is the story of Margarita Cogni, as far as it
relates to me.

"I forgot to mention that she was very devout, and would cross
herself if she heard the prayer time strike.

"She was quick in reply; as, for instance--One day when she had
made me very angry with beating somebody or other, I called her a
_cow_ (_cow_, in Italian, is a sad affront). I called her 'Vacca.'
She turned round, courtesied, and answered, 'Vacca _tua_,
'celenza' (_i.e._ eccelenza). '_Your_ cow, please your Excellency.'
In short, she was, as I said before, a very fine animal, of
considerable beauty and energy, with many good and several amusing
qualities, but wild as a witch and fierce as a demon. She used to
boast publicly of her ascendency over me, contrasting it with that
of other women, and assigning for it sundry reasons. True it was,
that they all tried to get her away, and no one succeeded till her
own absurdity helped them.

"I omitted to tell you her answer, when I reproached her for
snatching Madame Contarini's mask at the Cavalchina. I represented
to her that she was a lady of high birth, 'una Dama,' &c. She
answered, 'Se ella e dama _mi_ (_io_) son Veneziana;'--'If she is a
lady, I am a Venetian.' This would have been fine a hundred years
ago, the pride of the nation rising up against the pride of
aristocracy: but, alas! Venice, and her people, and her nobles, are
alike returning fast to the ocean; and where there is no
independence, there can be no real self-respect. I believe that I
mistook or mis-stated one of her phrases in my letter; it should
have been--'Can' della Madonna cosa vus' tu? esto non e tempo per
andar' a Lido?'"

[Footnote 23: The following are extracts from a letter of Shelley's to a
friend at this time.

"Venice, August, 1818.

"We came from Padua hither in a gondola; and the gondolier, among
other things, without any hint on our part, began talking of Lord
Byron. He said he was a 'Giovanotto Inglese,' with a 'nome
stravagante,' who lived very luxuriously, and spent great sums of
money.

"At three o'clock I called on Lord Byron. He was delighted to see
me, and our first conversation of course consisted in the object of
our visit. He took me in his gondola, across the Laguna, to a long,
strandy sand, which defends Venice from the Adriatic. When we
disembarked, we found his horses waiting for us, and we rode along
the sands, talking. Our conversation consisted in histories of his
own wounded feelings, and questions as to my affairs, with great
professions of friendship and regard for me. He said that if he had
been in England, at the time of the Chancery affair, he would have
moved heaven and earth to have prevented such a decision. He talked
of literary matters,--his fourth Canto, which he says is very good,
and indeed repeated some stanzas, of great energy, to me. When we
returned to his palace, which is one if the most magnificent in
Venice," &c. &c.
]

[Footnote 24: In the preface also to this poem, under the fictitious
name of Count Maddalo, the following just and striking portrait of Lord
Byron is drawn:--

"He is a person of the most consummate genius, and capable, if he would
direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his
degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud: he derives, from a
comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects
that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human
life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of
other men, and instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the
former, they have mutually lent each other strength. His ambition preys
upon itself for want of objects which it can consider worthy of
exertion. I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word
to express the concentred and impatient feelings which consume him; but
it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for
in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient, and
unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank, and witty. His more
serious conversation is a sort of intoxication. He has travelled much;
and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in
different countries."]

* * * * *

It was at this time, as we shall see by the letters I am about to
produce, and as the features, indeed, of the progeny itself would but
too plainly indicate, that he conceived, and wrote some part of, his
poem of 'Don Juan;'--and never did pages more faithfully and, in many
respects, lamentably, reflect every variety of feeling, and whim, and
passion that, like the wrack of autumn, swept across the author's mind
in writing them. Nothing less, indeed, than that singular combination of
attributes, which existed and were in full activity in his mind at this
moment, could have suggested, or been capable of, the execution of such
a work. The cool shrewdness of age, with the vivacity and glowing
temperament of youth,--the wit of a Voltaire, with the sensibility of a
Rousseau,--the minute, practical knowledge of the man of society, with
the abstract and self-contemplative spirit of the poet,--a
susceptibility of all that is grandest and most affecting in human
virtue, with a deep, withering experience of all that is most fatal to
it,--the two extremes, in short, of man's mixed and inconsistent nature,
now rankly smelling of earth, now breathing of heaven,--such was the
strange assemblage of contrary elements, all meeting together in the
same mind, and all brought to bear, in turn, upon the same task, from
which alone could have sprung this extraordinary poem,--the most
powerful and, in many respects, painful display of the versatility of
genius that has ever been left for succeeding ages to wonder at and
deplore.

I shall now proceed with his correspondence,--having thought some of the
preceding observations necessary, not only to explain to the reader much
of what he will find in these letters, but to account to him for much
that has been necessarily omitted.

* * * * *

LETTER 318. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Venice, June 18. 1818.

"Business and the utter and inexplicable silence of all my
correspondents renders me impatient and troublesome. I wrote to Mr.
Hanson for a balance which is (or ought to be) in his hands;--no
answer. I expected the messenger with the Newstead papers two
months ago, and instead of him, I received a requisition to proceed
to Geneva, which (from * *, who knows my wishes and opinions about
approaching England) could only be irony or insult.

"I must, therefore, trouble _you_ to pay into my bankers'
_immediately_ whatever sum or sums you can make it convenient to do
on our agreement; otherwise, I shall be put to the _severest_ and
most immediate inconvenience; and this at a time when, by every
rational prospect and calculation, I ought to be in the receipt of
considerable sums. Pray do not neglect this; you have no idea to
what inconvenience you will otherwise put me. * * had some absurd
notion about the disposal of this money in annuity (or God knows
what), which I merely listened to when he was here to avoid
squabbles and sermons; but I have occasion for the principal, and
had never any serious idea of appropriating it otherwise than to
answer my personal expenses. Hobhouse's wish is, if possible, to
force me back to England[25]: he will not succeed; and if he did, I
would not stay. I hate the country, and like this; and all foolish
opposition, of course, merely adds to the feeling. _Your_ silence
makes me doubt the success of Canto fourth. If it has failed, I
will make such deduction as you think proper and fair from the
original agreement; but I could wish whatever is to be paid were
remitted to me, without delay, through the usual channel, by course
of post.

"When I tell you that I have not heard a word from England since
very early in May, I have made the eulogium of my friends, or the
persons who call themselves so, since I have written so often and
in the greatest anxiety. Thank God, the longer I am absent, the
less cause I see for regretting the country or its living contents.
I am yours," &c.

[Footnote 25: Deeply is it, for many reasons, to be regretted that this
friendly purpose did not succeed.]

* * * * *

LETTER 319. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Venice, July 10. 1818.

"I have received your letter and the credit from Morlands, &c. for
whom I have also drawn upon you at sixty days' sight for the
remainder, according to your proposition.

"I am still waiting in Venice, in expectancy of the arrival of
Hanson's clerk. What can detain him, I do not know; but I trust
that Mr. Hobhouse, and Mr. Kinnaird, when their political fit is
abated, will take the trouble to enquire and expedite him, as I
have nearly a hundred thousand pounds depending upon the completion
of the sale and the signature of the papers.

"The draft on you is drawn up by Siri and Willhalm. I hope that
the form is correct. I signed it two or three days ago, desiring
them to forward it to Messrs. Morland and Ransom.

"Your projected editions for November had better be postponed, as I
have some things in project, or preparation, that may be of use to
you, though not very important in themselves. I have completed an
Ode on Venice, and have two Stories, one serious and one ludicrous
(a la Beppo), not yet finished, and in no hurry to be so.

"You talk of the letter to Hobhouse being much admired, and speak
of prose. I think of writing (for your full edition) some Memoirs
of my life, to prefix to them, upon the same model (though far
enough, I fear, from reaching it) of Gifford, Hume, &c.; and this
without any intention of making disclosures or remarks upon living
people, which would be unpleasant to them: but I think it might be
done, and well done. However, this is to be considered. I have
_materials_ in plenty, but the greater part of them could not be
used by _me_, nor for these hundred years to come. However, there
is enough without these, and merely as a literary man, to make a
preface for such an edition as you meditate. But this is by the
way: I have not made up my mind.

"I enclose you a _note_ on the subject of '_Parisina_,' which
Hobhouse can dress for you. It is an extract of particulars from a
history of Ferrara.

"I trust you have been attentive to Missiaglia, for the English
have the character of neglecting the Italians, at present, which I
hope you will redeem.

"Yours in haste, B."

* * * * *

LETTER 320. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Venice, July 17. 1818.

"I suppose that Aglietti will take whatever you offer, but till his
return from Vienna I can make him no proposal; nor, indeed, have
you authorised me to do so. The three French notes _are_ by Lady
Mary; also another half-English-French-Italian. They are very
pretty and passionate; it is a pity that a piece of one of them is
lost. Algarotti seems to have treated her ill; but she was much his
senior, and all women are used ill--or say so, whether they are or
not.

"I shall be glad of your books and powders. I am still in waiting
for Hanson's clerk, but luckily not at Geneva. All my good friends
wrote to me to hasten _there_ to meet him, but not one had the good
sense or the good nature, to write afterwards to tell me that it
would be time and a journey thrown away, as he could not set off
for some months after the period appointed. If I _had_ taken the
journey on the general suggestion, I never would have spoken again
to one of you as long as I existed. I have written to request Mr.
Kinnaird, when the foam of his politics is wiped away, to extract a
positive answer from that * * * *, and not to keep me in a state of
suspense upon the subject. I hope that Kinnaird, who has my power
of attorney, keeps a look-out upon the gentleman, which is the more
necessary, as I have a great dislike to the idea of coming over to
look after him myself.

"I have several things begun, verse and prose, but none in much
forwardness. I have written some six or seven sheets of a Life,
which I mean to continue, and send you when finished. It may
perhaps serve for your projected editions. If you would tell me
exactly (for I know nothing, and have no correspondents except on
business) the state of the reception of our late publications, and
the feeling upon them, without consulting any delicacies (I am too
seasoned to require them), I should know how and in what manner to
proceed. I should not like to give them too much, which may
probably have been the case already; but, as I tell you, I know
nothing.

"I once wrote from the fulness of my mind and the love of fame,
(not as an _end_, but as a _means_, to obtain that influence over
men's minds which is power in itself and in its consequences,) and
now from habit and from avarice; so that the effect may probably be
as different as the inspiration. I have the same facility, and
indeed necessity, of composition, to avoid idleness (though
idleness in a hot country is a pleasure), but a much greater
indifference to what is to become of it, after it has served my
immediate purpose. However, I should on no account like to--but I
won't go on, like the Archbishop of Granada, as I am very sure that
you dread the fate of Gil Blas, and with good reason. Yours, &c.

"P.S. I have written some very savage letters to Mr. Hobhouse,
Kinnaird, to you, and to Hanson, because the silence of so long a
time made me tear off my remaining rags of patience. I have seen
one or two late English publications which are no great things,
except Rob Roy. I shall be glad of Whistlecraft."

* * * * *

LETTER 321. TO MR. MURRAY.

"Venice, August 26. 1818.

"You may go on with your edition, without calculating on the
Memoir, which I shall not publish at present. It is nearly
finished, but will be too long; and there are so many things,
which, out of regard to the living, cannot be mentioned, that I
have written with too much detail of that which interested me
least; so that my autobiographical Essay would resemble the tragedy
of Hamlet at the country theatre, recited 'with the part of Hamlet
left out by particular desire.' I shall keep it among my papers; it
will be a kind of guide-post in case of death, and prevent some of
the lies which would otherwise be told, and destroy some which have
been told already.

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