by Thomas Moore
Another consequence of the spirit of defiance now roused in him, and one that tended, perhaps, even more fatally than any yet mentioned, to sully and, for a time, bring down to earth the romance of his character, was the course of life to which, outrunning even the licence of his youth, he abandoned himself at Venice. From this, as from his earlier excesses, the timely warning of disgust soon rescued him; and the connection with Madame Guiccioli which followed, and which, however much to be reprehended, had in it all of marriage that his real marriage wanted, seemed to place, at length, within reach of his affectionate spirit that union and sympathy for which, through life, it had thirsted. But the treasure came too late; — the pure poetry of the feeling had vanished; and those tears he shed so passionately in the garden at Bologna flowed less, perhaps, from the love which he felt at that moment, than from the saddening consciousness how differently he could have felt formerly. It was, indeed, wholly beyond the power, even of an imagination like his, to go on investing with its own ideal glories a sentiment which, — more from daring and vanity than from any other impulse, — he had taken such pains to tarnish and debase in his own eyes. Accordingly, instead of being able, as once, to elevate and embellish all that interested him, to make an idol of every passing creature of his fancy, and mistake the form of love, which he so often conjured up, for its substance, he now degenerated into the wholly opposite and perverse error of depreciating and making light of what, intrinsically, he valued, and, as the reader has seen, throwing slight and mockery upon a tie in which it was evident some of the best feelings of his nature were wrapped up. That foe to all enthusiasm and romance, the habit of ridicule, had, in proportion as he exchanged the illusions for the realities of life, gained further empire over him; and how far it had, at this time, encroached upon the loftier and fairer regions of his mind may be seen in the pages of Don Juan, — that diversified arena, on which the two Genii, good and evil, that governed his thoughts, hold, with alternate triumph, their ever-powerful combat.
Even this, too, this vein of mockery, — in the excess to which, at last, he carried it, — was but another result of the shock his proud mind had received from those events that had cast him off, branded and heart-stricken, from country and from home. As he himself touchingly says,
“And if I laugh at any mortal thing, ’Tis that I may not weep.”
This laughter, — which, in such temperaments, is the near neighbour of tears, — served as a diversion to him from more painful vents of bitterness; and the same philosophical calculation which made the poet of melancholy, Young, declare that “he preferred laughing at the world to being angry with it,” led Lord Byron also to settle upon the same conclusion; and to feel, in the misanthropic views he was inclined to take of mankind, that mirth often saved him the pain of hate.
That, with so many drawbacks upon all generous effusions of sentiment, he should still have preserved so much of his native tenderness and ardour as is conspicuous, through all disguises, in his unquestionable love for Madame Guiccioli, and in the still more undoubted zeal with which he now entered, heart and soul, into the great cause of human freedom, wheresoever or by whomsoever asserted, — only shows how rich must have been the original stores of sensibility and enthusiasm which even a career such as his could so little chill or exhaust. Most consoling, too, is it to reflect that the few latter years of his life should have been thus visited with a return of that poetic lustre, which, though it never had ceased to surround the bard, had but too much faded away from the character of the man; and that while Love, — reprehensible as it was, but still Love, — had the credit of rescuing him from the only errors that disgraced his maturer years, for Liberty was reserved the proud but mournful triumph of calling the last stage of his glorious course her own, and lighting him, amidst the sympathies of the world, to his grave.
Having endeavoured, in this comparison between his present and former self, to account, by what I consider to be their true causes, for the new phenomena which his character, at this period, exhibited, I shall now lay before the reader the Journal by which these remarks were more immediately suggested, and from which I fear they will be thought to have too long detained him.
EXTRACTS FROM A DIARY OF LORD BYRON. 1821.
“Ravenna, January 4. 1821.
“‘A sudden thought strikes me.’ Let me begin a Journal once more. The last I kept was in Switzerland, in record of a tour made in the Bernese Alps, which I made to send to my sister in 1816, and I suppose that she has it still, for she wrote to me that she was pleased with it. Another, and longer, I kept in 1813-1814, which I gave to Thomas Moore in the same year.
“This morning I gat me up late, as usual — weather bad — bad as England — worse. The snow of last week melting to the sirocco of to-day, so that there were two d —— d things at once. Could not even get to ride on horseback in the forest. Stayed at home all the morning — looked at the fire — wondered when the post would come. Post came at the Ave Maria, instead of half-past one o’clock, as it ought, Galignani’s Messengers, six in number — a letter from Faenza, but none from England. Very sulky in consequence (for there ought to have been letters), and ate in consequence a copious dinner; for when I am vexed, it makes me swallow quicker — but drank very little.
“I was out of spirits — read the papers — thought what fame was, on reading, in a case of murder, that ‘Mr. Wych, grocer, at Tunbridge, sold some bacon, flour, cheese, and, it is believed, some plums, to some gipsy woman accused. He had on his counter (I quote faithfully) a book, the Life of Pamela, which he was tearing for waste paper, &c. &c. In the cheese was found, &c. and a leaf of Pamela wrapt round the bacon.’ What would Richardson, the vainest and luckiest of living authors (i.e. while alive) — he who, with Aaron Hill, used to prophesy and chuckle over the presumed fall of Fielding (the prose Homer of human nature) and of Pope (the most beautiful of poets) — what would he have said, could he have traced his pages from their place on the French prince’s toilets (see Boswell’s Johnson) to the grocer’s counter and the gipsy-murderess’s bacon!!!
“What would he have said? what can any body say, save what Solomon said long before us? After all, it is but passing from one counter to another, from the bookseller’s to the other tradesman’s — grocer or pastry-cook. For my part, I have met with most poetry upon trunks; so that I am apt to consider the trunk-maker as the sexton of authorship.
“Wrote five letters in about half an hour, short and savage, to all my rascally correspondents. Carriage came. Heard the news of three murders at Faenza and Forli — a carabinier, a smuggler, and an attorney — all last night. The two first in a quarrel, the latter by premeditation.
“Three weeks ago — almost a month — the 7th it was — I picked up the commandant, mortally wounded, out of the street; he died in my house; assassins unknown, but presumed political. His brethren wrote from Rome last night to thank me for having assisted him in his last moments. Poor fellow! it was a pity; he was a good soldier, but imprudent. It was eight in the evening when they killed him. We heard the shot; my servants and I ran out, and found him expiring, with five wounds, two whereof mortal — by slugs they seemed. I examined him, but did not go to the dissection next morning.
“Carriage at 8 or so — went to visit La Contessa G. — found her playing on the piano-forte — talked till ten, when the Count, her father, and the no less Count, her brother, came in from the theatre. Play, they said, Alfieri’s Filippo — well received.
“Two days ago the King of Naples passed through Bologna on his way to congress. My servant Luigi brought the news. I had sent him to Bologna for a lamp. How will it end? Time will show.
“Came home at eleven, or rather before. If the road and weather are comfortable, mean to ride to-morrow. High time — almost a week at this work — snow, sirocco, one day — frost and snow the other — sad climate for Italy. But the two seasons, last and present, are extraordinary. Read a Life of Leonardo da Vinci by Rossi — ruminated — wrote this much, a
nd will go to bed.
“January 5. 1821.
“Rose late — dull and drooping — the weather dripping and dense. Snow on the ground, and sirocco above in the sky, like yesterday. Roads up to the horse’s belly, so that riding (at least for pleasure) is not very feasible. Added a postscript to my letter to Murray. Read the conclusion, for the fiftieth time (I have read all W. Scott’s novels at least fifty times), of the third series of ‘Tales of my Landlord,’ — grand work — Scotch Fielding, as well as great English poet — wonderful man! I long to get drunk with him.
“Dined versus six o’ the clock. Forgot that there was a plum-pudding, (I have added, lately, eating to my ‘family of vices,’) and had dined before I knew it. Drank half a bottle of some sort of spirits — probably spirits of wine; for what they call brandy, rum, &c. &c. here is nothing but spirits of wine, coloured accordingly. Did not eat two apples, which were placed by way of dessert. Fed the two cats, the hawk, and the tame (but not tamed) crow. Read Mitford’s History of Greece — Xenophon’s Retreat of the Ten Thousand. Up to this present moment writing, 6 minutes before eight o’ the clock — French hours, not Italian.
“Hear the carriage — order pistols and great coat, as usual — necessary articles. Weather cold — carriage open, and inhabitants somewhat savage — rather treacherous and highly inflamed by politics. Fine fellows, though, good materials for a nation. Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
“Clock strikes — going out to make love. Somewhat perilous, but not disagreeable. Memorandum — a new screen put up to-day. It is rather antique, but will do with a little repair.
“Thaw continues — hopeful that riding may be practicable to-morrow. Sent the papers to Alli. — grand events coming.
“11 o’ the clock and nine minutes. Visited La Contessa G. Nata G.G. Found her beginning my letter of answer to the thanks of Alessio del Pinto of Rome for assisting his brother the late Commandant in his last moments, as I had begged her to pen my reply for the purer Italian, I being an ultra-montane, little skilled in the set phrase of Tuscany. Cut short the letter — finish it another day. Talked of Italy, patriotism, Alfieri, Madame Albany, and other branches of learning. Also Sallust’s Conspiracy of Catiline, and the War of Jugurtha. At 9 came in her brother, Il Conte Pietro — at 10, her father, Conte Ruggiero.
“Talked of various modes of warfare — of the Hungarian and Highland modes of broad-sword exercise, in both whereof I was once a moderate ‘master of fence.’ Settled that the R. will break out on the 7th or 8th of March, in which appointment I should trust, had it not been settled that it was to have broken out in October, 1820. But those Bolognese shirked the Romagnuoles.
“‘It is all one to Ranger.’ One must not be particular, but take rebellion when it lies in the way. Come home — read the ‘Ten Thousand’ again, and will go to bed.
“Mem. — Ordered Fletcher (at four o’clock this afternoon) to copy out seven or eight apophthegms of Bacon, in which I have detected such blunders as a school-boy might detect rather than commit. Such are the sages! What must they be, when such as I can stumble on their mistakes or misstatements? I will go to bed, for I find that I grow cynical.
“January 6. 1821.
“Mist — thaw — slop — rain. No stirring out on horseback. Read Spence’s Anecdotes. Pope a fine fellow — always thought him so. Corrected blunders in nine apophthegms of Bacon — all historical — and read Mitford’s Greece. Wrote an epigram. Turned to a passage in Guinguené — ditto in Lord Holland’s Lope de Vega. Wrote a note on Don Juan.
“At eight went out to visit. Heard a little music — like music. Talked with Count Pietro G. of the Italian comedian Vestris, who is now at Rome — have seen him often act in Venice — a good actor — very. Somewhat of a mannerist; but excellent in broad comedy, as well as in the sentimental pathetic. He has made me frequently laugh and cry, neither of which is now a very easy matter — at least, for a player to produce in me.
“Thought of the state of women under the ancient Greeks — convenient enough. Present state a remnant of the barbarism of the chivalry and feudal ages — artificial and unnatural. They ought to mind home — and be well fed and clothed — but not mixed in society. Well educated, too, in religion — but to read neither poetry nor politics — nothing but books of piety and cookery. Music — drawing — dancing — also a little gardening and ploughing now and then. I have seen them mending the roads in Epirus with good success. Why not, as well as hay-making and milking?
“Came home, and read Mitford again, and played with my mastiff — gave him his supper. Made another reading to the epigram, but the turn the same. To-night at the theatre, there being a prince on his throne in the last scene of the comedy, — the audience laughed, and asked him for a Constitution. This shows the state of the public mind here, as well as the assassinations. It won’t do. There must be an universal republic, — and there ought to be.
“The crow is lame of a leg — wonder how it happened — some fool trod upon his toe, I suppose. The falcon pretty brisk — the cats large and noisy — the monkeys I have not looked to since the cold weather, as they suffer by being brought up. Horses must be gay — get a ride as soon as weather serves. Deuced muggy still — an Italian winter is a sad thing, but all the other seasons are charming.
“What is the reason that I have been, all my lifetime, more or less ennuyé? and that, if any thing, I am rather less so now than I was at twenty, as far as my recollection serves? I do not know how to answer this, but presume that it is constitutional, — as well as the waking in low spirits, which I have invariably done for many years. Temperance and exercise, which I have practised at times, and for a long time together vigorously and violently, made little or no difference. Violent passions did; — when under their immediate influence — it is odd, but — I was in agitated, but not in depressed, spirits.
“A dose of salts has the effect of a temporary inebriation, like light champagne, upon me. But wine and spirits make me sullen and savage to ferocity — silent, however, and retiring, and not quarrelsome, if not spoken to. Swimming also raises my spirits, — but in general they are low, and get daily lower. That is hopeless; for I do not think I am so much ennuyé as I was at nineteen. The proof is, that then I must game, or drink, or be in motion of some kind, or I was miserable. At present, I can mope in quietness; and like being alone better than any company — except the lady’s whom I serve. But I feel a something, which makes me think that, if I ever reach near to old age, like Swift, ‘I shall die at top’ first. Only I do not dread idiotism or madness so much as he did. On the contrary, I think some quieter stages of both must be preferable to much of what men think the possession of their senses.
“January 7. 1821, Sunday.
“Still rain — mist — snow — drizzle — and all the incalculable combinations of a climate where heat and cold struggle for mastery. Head Spence, and turned over Roscoe, to find a passage I have not found. Read the fourth vol. of W. Scott’s second series of ‘Tales of my Landlord.’ Dined. Read the Lugano Gazette. Read — I forget what. At eight went to conversazione. Found there the Countess Geltrude, Betti V. and her husband, and others. Pretty black-eyed woman that — only nineteen — same age as Teresa, who is prettier, though.
“The Count Pietro G. took me aside to say that the Patriots have had notice from Forli (twenty miles off) that to-night the government and its party mean to strike a stroke — that the Cardinal here has had orders to make several arrests immediately, and that, in consequence, the Liberals are arming, and have posted patroles in the streets, to sound the alarm and give notice to fight for it.
“He asked me ‘what should be done?’ I answered, ‘Fight for it, rather than be taken in detail;’ and offered, if any of them are in immediate apprehension of arrest, to receive them in my house (which is defensible), and to defend them, with my servants and themselves (we have arms and ammunition), as long as we can, — or to try to get them away under cloud of
night. On going home, I offered him the pistols which I had about me — but he refused, but said he would come off to me in case of accidents.
“It wants half an hour of midnight, and rains; — as Gibbet says, ‘a fine night for their enterprise — dark as hell, and blows like the devil.’ If the row don’t happen now, it must soon. I thought that their system of shooting people would soon produce a re-action — and now it seems coming. I will do what I can in the way of combat, though a little out of exercise. The cause is a good one.
“Turned over and over half a score of books for the passage in question, and can’t find it. Expect to hear the drum and the musquetry momently (for they swear to resist, and are right,) — but I hear nothing, as yet, save the plash of the rain and the gusts of the wind at intervals. Don’t like to go to bed, because I hate to be waked, and would rather sit up for the row, if there is to be one.
“Mended the fire — have got the arms — and a book or two, which I shall turn over. I know little of their numbers, but think the Carbonari strong enough to beat the troops, even here. With twenty men this house might be defended for twenty-four hours against any force to be brought against it, now in this place, for the same time; and, in such a time, the country would have notice, and would rise, — if ever they will rise, of which there is some doubt. In the mean time, I may as well read as do any thing else, being alone.
