Lord Byron's Novel: The Evening Land

by John Crowley

  The honest Bey took his leave of the Pacha, and set out upon his road. Immediately the Pacha sent certain men after him—and if that Bey ever reached his home and his haram again, those men sent in pursuit of him would not afterward dare to be seen as far as the Pacha’s power reached, which was to the ends of the earth as they conceived it. Soon thereafter the Pacha’s horde fell upon the lands where Ali’s adopted clan had for lifetimes lived and herded, to bring their Chiefs into subjection, and their tribute into his Coffers.

  There is that in human hearts—and not only in hearts that have learned from written Histories, or the orations of Statesmen—which loves Liberty above Life; and which greater oppression only enlarges—for ‘like the chamomile, the more it is trodden upon, the faster it grows’—which may well be true, of chamomile, though I cannot say so of my own experience; of Liberty, I know that the Suliote women who, pursued by the Pacha’s troops in an earlier time, and seeing all lost, threw themselves with their babes in their arms from the height of the Zalongue rocks rather than surrender, acknowledged no higher good; and were not persuaded to prefer Tyranny above even the direst and last alternative.

  The Ochridans, freedom-loving like the Suliotes, but not so famed for fierceness, ran before the wind of the Pacha’s forces—among which were now many hired Suliote warriors, be it said—bearing what goods they could upon their backs or in their wooden carts, and leaving their simple cots to burn behind them. Ali and Iman, driving their complaining goats before, hurried through the valleys to the North, but their flight was as vain as a coracle’s, that rows beneath the storm-wave’s fall; before they could see the foe that came upon them they could feel the hoofbeats in their own bare feet. The men of their clan—holding a high point, and resisting the onrush with cries and gunfire (more cries than gunfire, for they were but poor in arms as in much else) only to win time for their women and children to escape—vain hope!—are soon ridden over; Ali turns in his flight to see a great Stallion bear down upon him and Iman, the man upon its back lifting a glittering curved sword on high, and the wind lifting in turn his capote around him, his teeth bared like a wolf’s as though he meant to employ them too in vastation. Ali draws his weapon, charged with the single ball and jot of powder he has been able to appropriate; he stands before his Lady, and aims—none who has not withstood a charging Suliote horseman will know his courage!—and fires, or rather misfires—yet the rider pulls up, so violently as almost to bring down horse and self alike. His wolvish teeth now displayed in a gladsome smile, he takes hold of Ali’s arm, that still bears the useless pistol; he sees the mark upon it—laughs in delight, for the Pacha has announced a prize, and he has won it!—and with a single mighty swinge he lifts the boy (who will always be slight, though strong and well-formed) upon his horse’s crupper. Iman, seeing this, shrinks not, flees not, hesitates for not a moment before she attacks the horseman with her little fists, a tyger—and for a moment it seems the roaring warrior may lose his prize, having both to keep the boy astride and the furious girl away—what madness has the Devil visited upon the two, that they will not part?—but at length he kicks his steed, and Ali is borne away too swiftly to free himself. Iman races after him calling his name, and Ali’s own free hand (the other being clasped in the strong grip of the warrior) still reaches out toward her as though it might somehow cross the widening gap between them—as his heart, his soul, does cross it, borne on the cry he makes, leaving his breast as though for ever, to remain with her. The grievous cries of children, endlessly multiplied! Surely they must storm Heaven, surely to them the ears of even the hardiest of brigands must attend, and their hearts be softened—and indeed they do attend, sometimes, but not very often—only a little more often, perhaps, than does Heaven.

  Ali’s captor now turned back, against the swell of battle, if battle it could be named, and kicked harder his horse’s flank; and Ali, who had before tried with all his might to leap from his bounding perch upon the beast’s rump, now in fear clung to the rider, lest he be flung from that height down upon the stones, or under the hooves. When some leagues had been put between the two of them and the Pacha’s still-advancing forces, the warrior slowed his pace; and Ali—already farther from home and familiar scenes than he had ever been—had no choice but to keep his seat, and bounce along into what might come. No word had yet passed between him and the rider—perhaps they would not have understood each other’s dialect—and indeed there was nothing to say—for Ali knew not what to ask, and the other would not have answered. When the day was at length drowned in green evening, they made their camp, and the brigand gave food to his captive, and, smiling upon him as before, bade him with many gestures to eat his fill; but when they retired—upon the ground, beneath the blanket of their capotes, and the black tester of the infinite spangled night—he tied Ali’s wrists to his own wrist by a thong of leather. Then did Ali beg to know what was to become of him, and why he alone had been rapt from the catastrophe of his people and his beloved; whereupon—whether he understood, or did not—the fellow ceased to grin, and waggled at Ali a long and dirty finger, expressive of Prohibition and Silence, and turned to sleep. Ali at his side wept, when he thought he would not be heard: wept, for Iman—for his old Mentor—for his goats, whose familiar names he spoke in silent syllables—for the life of slavery he had reason to be certain was all that was to come.

  But instead—and one who has read the tale thus far will not be astonished to learn it—he was brought after many stages to the Pacha’s house in Tepelene, the largest and finest he had ever seen, not as a slave but as an honoured Guest. He was brought before the Pacha himself, who smiled upon him, and caressed his dark curls—took his hands in his own, and look’d gloatingly upon the mark he bore—placed him on his silken Sopha at his right hand, and gave him sugared nuts, and sweetmeats, while his own grandson look’d on shocked and affronted. When we know nothing at all of the world beyond a single valley and its slopes and vineyards, then we are perhaps not so amazed at the things that befall when we are suddenly and swiftly transported beyond it, having no means to form expectations. Ali took no exception to his treatment by the smiling old tyrant, and was moved neither to gratitude nor devotion; he put on without question the rich apparel that was given him, consisting of a long white kilt of softest wool, a gold-worked cloak, an embroidered vest heavy as a breastplate, great belt, and a scarf for his head of as many colors as Joseph’s coat. Only the sword that the Pacha himself put in his hands, curved and brilliant like the Devil’s smile and meant as much for hurt, moved him, and caused him to speak—he vowed that he would not ever after be parted from it: nor would he, till years had passed, and a stern magistrate demanded its surrender—but all that was long to come, in a far land he yet knew naught of. How he went thither, and what then befell him, all remains to be told; however, having proffered more than sufficient matter for a Chapter, I shall here break my page, and rest my pen.

  From: “Smith”

  To: “Thea”
  Subject: Hey

  Sweetie—

  Here I am, here I really am. God what a trip that is. I know you said so but jeez. I think that pill you gave me was the wrong one—it was sposed to be a valium right—well I took it somewhere out over the Atlantic and had a mini-bottle of wine and slept 20 minutes and then I was AWAKE from then on, and jittery and anxious—are you sure it wasn’t some kind of upper? And then you get to London and it’s dawn of the next day, though it should be like two in the morning, and you can’t get in your hotel till noon—what do you do? Well I put my stuff in the Left Luggage at the train station and went walking. In the RAIN. I had my raincoat but I needed an umbrella. I went to the Lost Property Office—remember Frankie told us that was such a great place? And I wrote down the address? Well it is great—and they had hundreds of umbrellas people had left on trains—and briefcases and hats and PRAMS (?what happened to the babies?) and books and bundles. The little guy there was so cute—wit
h suspenders (I mean braces) and a tie tucked in his shirt and a little toothbrush moustache. He showed me umbrellas. I got a Swain Adeney. The absolute best. He said so. It’s got a big thick handle of some kind of bamboo. “You can use it as a cosh,” the guy said, and showed me.

  So now anyway I’m in Bloomsbury and the room Georgiana got me is nice and I don’t know how I can still be awake, I feel like any second I’m just going to pitch forward onto the keyboard. It’s still too early to call you. I get to meet Georgiana at five. For TEA and talk about what to do next. I am a little nervous. I’ve never seen a picture of her even, but I know just what she’s going to look like. Do you ever have this thing where you set out on some trip that seemed like a good idea and suddenly it feels like you jumped off a cliff, or contracted a disease you’ll never shake, and all you want is to be home. O that my love were in my arms and I in my bed again. The small rain down can rain. Write me. I love you.

  Smith

  From: “Thea”

  To: “Smith”

  Subject: RE:Hey

  babe so good to get the note and find youre not in the drink maybe having a drink tho thats good listen you know thats the first time you ever wrote that i l y you did say it a couple of times thats important or maybe it isnt but listen heres something i went to dinner with barb and some of the craftspeople those people she knows they were nice but sometimes I dont have much to say to them you know about yarn or wood or whatever but they were asking about me getting the biz on me and I talked about you and I said the woman whos my partner thats the first time Ive said that partner it just came out then i worried is it okay

  anyway i l y 2

  me

  From: “Smith”

  To: “Thea”

  Subject: RE:Re:Hey

  Howdy, podner—

  Tea with Georgiana was not just what I thought. She lives in St. John’s Wood, which isn’t a wood, just a part of town, a nice part; an old messy apartment, and she’s not an ancient dame in lace, she’s a skinny stringy woman who looks a little like Jessica’s mother, that sort of worn Waspy type, of course they’re all Waspy here, and she was wearing jeans and a sweater. But nice really. Her apartment is so full of books and papers and journals that it’s hard to find a place to sit; she showed me her bedroom, which was so full you can’t get to the bed, she sleeps in another room, a little den. Every room has a fireplace with this little fake coal fire in it, electric. “The electric fire” she says. It’s so funny. She insists on calling me Alexandra. Her head sort of bobbles when she talks, like those silly dogs people put in the back of their cars. I like her a lot.

  We ate the tea (it’s a meal, you know, not just a drink) which was a little primitive, cookies out of a box and some bread and butter, though she took a long time with the tea and it was strong and nice. Then I was sitting on her couch and she went off to answer the phone and she talked a long time, this little droney English voice, and I tried to overhear, and then suddenly I opened my eyes and she’s looking down at me smiling. I fell asleep. For like ten minutes she said. Embarraseeeen as Rocky says. I said I was all right but she put me in a taxi. Oh well.

  So now it’s 2 AM and I’m full of pep. Write me again, and again

  S

  From: “Smith”

  To: “Thea”

  Subject: Georgiana

  10 AM. Back to Georgiana’s. She said she wanted the site shut down while it was redesigned, and I said that I thought that was a bad idea. She hates the pop-ups and the ads. She said it was like trying to read an encyclopedia article in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, “you’d say Times Square.” She won’t talk about how much money it would take to redo the whole site and relieve it of advertisers, but she certainly has big ideas. Of course I really don’t get to say Okay hey, show me the money, and what do I care anyway? Let the Sondra (Lilith) Mackays of the world worry about that, I just do my job. Anyway it seems now I’m working for her. So we hovered over the site and talked.

  I learned that a long time ago she wanted to get a degree in math (she says “maths”) from a US university but her family talked her out of it. So there’s the primal scene. And now she’s the head of the family and can do what she wants. She didn’t say that.

  WOW. I’m exhausted. I’m going to be here a month at least, and do Mary Somerville, Charlotte Angas Scott, Rosamund Franklin, and Ada Lovelace, and a couple of others I never heard of. See me rubbing my hands together? That’s glee, not the chill. (It’s weird: the “electric fire” is all the heat there is, and if you get out of range of it—like on your way to the bathroom—it’s cold as hell.)

  World’s longest email. Write me again and again.

  S

  Mom—Don’t you love these lilacs—they’re at Kew Gardens—remember, “Come down to Kew in lilac time,” I haven’t been there yet but the postcards are everywhere No lilacs yet though. I’m here doing research for the Web site. I don’t have a real address yet—I’ll call you soon to let you know.

  Love Alex PS Hi to Marc

  From: “Smith”

  To: “Thea”

  Subject: Amazing

  So guess what, one day after I get here to look at letters and papers of Ada Byron King, Countess of Lovelace. An amazing thing. One of those things that happen to me, that come after me to happen. Those where I tell you: ah, the world isn’t what we think it is. And you just roll your eyes up, mathematician.

  Somebody got in touch with Georgiana yesterday with an offer. Some papers have turned up and this person (Georgiana isn’t even saying a name) wants to sell them to Georgiana because she’s like a collector and the person knows she’d be interested because the papers are Ada’s! Georgiana says she wasn’t told exactly what they were but the person told her they were “extensive” or anyway there was one big something. They were found in a trunk that’s claimed to have been the property of Ada’s son. Whose name was Byron. (His first name. Ada’s father was George Gordon, Lord Byron, the poet.) The son was also a lord, Lord Ockham. So Georgiana is going to go and look at them, and she wants me to come. She’s not really sure what’s up here and this is all a little odd to say the least (she said) but she asked me wouldn’t it be such fun to see them. Well sure. I’m ready.

  So see? Amazing things gather around your lover & podner. Don’t tell me it’s all random. Some things are Meant To Be.

  Smith

  From: “Thea”

  To: “Smith”

  Subject: Not amazing

  gosh weird good luck with this woman better you than me

  just because its important or interesting doesnt mean its not random things wouldnt be random if they were uniform if they are truly random you have to expect crazy runs of luck you dont get more than anybody you just notice it more or maybe you do get more because some people would have to randomly get more but who gets more is randomly distributed have to think about that one but anyway theyre only amazing to you because they have to do with you

  like meeting you was amazing to me amazing luck but not not-random just amazing and it still is

  t

  From: “Smith”

  To: “Thea”

  Subject: RE:Not amazing

  Thea—I know—coincidences are only important if they’re important to me—or to you—frinstance—but I’m a historian (sort of, anyway) and history’s made of coincidences—you hate history and you don’t think it’s important because after all people in the past were wrong about science and that’s that.

  Ada and Byron and me and these papers and Georgiana and now: that’s what I mean.

  S

  From: “Thea”

  To: “Smith”


  Subject: RE:Re: Not amazing

  okay i dont get it i never read byron and im not going to start now all i know about ada is whats on the site and what i have heard like the first computer program which i always wondered about you think i hate history and think its unimportant for science because science is only one way but no not math math is partly about the history of math i just never thought ada was a real part of it so explain to me what all this is and who byron is and adas son is dont write too much and i will try to remember

  t

  From: “Smith”

  To: “Thea”

  Subject: Story

  Thea

  Here’s the story as I know it, which isn’t very well, not yet, but I feel I’m going to have to learn it lots better.

  Byron (1788–1824, I just looked it up for you, no trouble) was a famous poet and a broke lord when he married Annabella Milbanke. He was 24, she was 18. He was like a rock star, like Mick Jagger: in the sense of being somebody who made women faint, and in the sense of being an innovator, making up something that seemed completely new, and in the sense of his poetry being about his own hot self. He was also bi. He was demonic, sort of—they say—and one of his lovers said he was “mad, bad, and dangerous to know.” That’s the famous phrase. Annabella was kind of uptight, a sheltered single child, high-minded, with zero sense of humor. She had studied math, which Byron thought was unladylike and sort of comical. They were a hopeless couple, and I don’t know why they chose each other. When they had Ada they’d been married two years, a tough two years, and the marriage fell apart. He was a disaster as a husband—taking opium, drinking, making nightlong scenes, having affairs with actresses. And she found out he was having an affair with his half sister Augusta. Or she found that out and that he had had affairs with boys when he was in Greece; or those things plus he tried something on her in bed that was a sin, and a crime too, you guess what. He was drunk the night that Ada was being born, and came in after it was over and said Is it dead?