Life of Lord Byron Volume IV Part 17

"Ever very truly and affectionately yours,

"B.

"P.S. I pet.i.tion for tooth-brushes, powder, magnesia, Maca.s.sar oil (or Russia), _the_ sashes, and Sir Nl. Wraxall's Memoirs of his own Times. I want, besides, a bull-dog, a terrier, and two Newfoundland dogs; and I want (is it Buck's?) a life of _Richard 3d_, advertised by Longman _long, long, long_ ago; I asked for it at least three years since. See Longman's advertis.e.m.e.nts."

About the middle of April, Madame Guiccioli had been obliged to quit Venice with her husband. Having several houses on the road from Venice to Ravenna, it was his habit to stop at these mansions, one after the other, in his journeys between the two cities; and from all these places the enamoured young Countess now wrote to Lord Byron, expressing, in the most pa.s.sionate and pathetic terms, her despair at leaving him. So utterly, indeed, did this feeling overpower her, that three times, in the course of her first day's journey, she was seized with fainting fits. In one of her letters, which I saw when at Venice, dated, if I recollect right, from "Ca Zen, Cavanelle di Po," she tells him that the solitude of this place, which she had before found irksome, was, now that one sole idea occupied her mind, become dear and welcome to her, and promises that, as soon as she arrives at Ravenna, "she will, according to his wish, avoid all general society, and devote herself to reading, music, domestic occupations, riding on horseback,--every thing, in short, that she knew he would most like." What a change for a young and simple girl, who, but a few weeks before, had thought only of society and the world, but who now saw no other happiness but in the hope of making herself worthy, by seclusion and self-instruction, of the ill.u.s.trious object of her devotion!

On leaving this place, she was attacked with a dangerous illness on the road, and arrived half dead at Ravenna; nor was it found possible to revive or comfort her till an a.s.surance was received from Lord Byron, expressed with all the fervour of real pa.s.sion, that, in the course of the ensuing month, he would pay her a visit. Symptoms of consumption, brought on by her state of mind, had already shown themselves; and, in addition to the pain which this separation had caused her, she was also suffering much grief from the loss of her mother, who, at this time, died in giving birth to her fourteenth child. Towards the latter end of May she wrote to acquaint Lord Byron that, having prepared all her relatives and friends to expect him, he might now, she thought, venture to make his appearance at Ravenna. Though, on the lady's account, hesitating as to the prudence of such a step, he, in obedience to her wishes, on the 2d of June, set out from La Mira (at which place he had again taken a villa for the summer), and proceeded towards Romagna.

From Padua he addressed a letter to Mr. Hoppner, chiefly occupied with matters of household concern which that gentleman had undertaken to manage for him at Venice, but, on the immediate object of his journey, expressing himself in a tone so light and jesting, as it would be difficult for those not versed in his character to conceive that he could ever bring himself, while under the influence of a pa.s.sion so sincere, to a.s.sume. But such is ever the wantonness of the mocking spirit, from which nothing,--not even love,--remains sacred; and which, at last, for want of other food, turns upon himself. The same horror, too, of hypocrisy that led Lord Byron to exaggerate his own errors, led him also to disguise, under a seemingly heartless ridicule, all those natural and kindly qualities by which they were redeemed.

This letter from Padua concludes thus:--

"A journey in an Italian June is a conscription; and if I was not the most constant of men, I should now be swimming from the Lido, instead of smoking in the dust of Padua. Should there be letters from England, let them wait my return. And do look at my house and (not lands, but) waters, and scold;--and deal out the monies to Edgecombe[32] with an air of reluctance and a shake of the head--and put queer questions to him--and turn up your nose when he answers.

"Make my respect to the Consules--and to the Chevalier--and to Scotin--and to all the counts and countesses of our acquaintance.

"And believe me ever

"Your disconsolate and affectionate," &c.

[Footnote 32: A clerk of the English Consulate, whom he at this time employed to control his accounts.]

As a contrast to the strange levity of this letter, as well as in justice to the real earnestness of the pa.s.sion, however censurable in all other respects, that now engrossed him, I shall here transcribe some stanzas which he wrote in the course of this journey to Romagna, and which, though already published, are not comprised in the regular collection of his works.

"River[33], that rollest by the ancient walls, Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls A faint and fleeting memory of me;

"What if thy deep and ample stream should be A mirror of my heart, where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!

"What do I say--a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?

Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art were my pa.s.sions long.

"Time may have somewhat tamed them,--not for ever; Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away,

"But left long wrecks behind, and now again, Borne in our old unchanged career, we move; Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, And I--to loving _one_ I should not love.

"The current I behold will sweep beneath Her native walls and murmur at her feet; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.

"She will look on thee,--I have look'd on thee, Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see, Without the inseparable sigh for her!

"Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,-- Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now: Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, That happy wave repa.s.s me in its flow!

"The wave that bears my tears returns no more: Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?-- Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy sh.o.r.e, I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

"But that which keepeth us apart is not Distance, nor depth of wave, nor s.p.a.ce of earth.

But the distraction of a various lot, As various as the climates of our birth.

"A stranger loves the lady of the land, Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd By the black wind that chills the polar flood.

"My blood is all meridian; were it not, I had not left my clime, nor should I be, In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, A slave again of love,--at least of thee.

"'Tis vain to struggle--let me perish young-- Live as I lived, and love as I have loved; To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved."

On arriving at Bologna and receiving no further intelligence from the Contessa, he began to be of opinion, as we shall perceive in the annexed interesting letters, that he should act most prudently, for all parties, by returning to Venice.

[Footnote 33: The Po.]

LETTER 330. TO MR. HOPPNER.

"Bologna, June 6. 1819.

"I am at length joined to Bologna, where I am settled like a sausage, and shall be broiled like one, if this weather continues.

Will you thank Mengaldo on my part for the Ferrara acquaintance, which was a very agreeable one. I stayed two days at Ferrara, and was much pleased with the Count Mosti, and the little the shortness of the time permitted me to see of his family. I went to his conversazione, which is very far superior to any thing of the kind at Venice--the women almost all young--several pretty--and the men courteous and cleanly. The lady of the mansion, who is young, lately married, and with child, appeared very pretty by candlelight (I did not see her by day), pleasing in her manners, and very lady-like, or thorough-bred, as we call it in England,--a kind of thing which reminds one of a racer, an antelope, or an Italian greyhound. She seems very fond of her husband, who is amiable and accomplished; he has been in England two or three times, and is young. The sister, a Countess somebody--I forget what--(they are both Maffei by birth, and Veronese of course)--is a lady of more display; she sings and plays divinely; but I thought she was a d----d long time about it. Her likeness to Madame Flahaut (Miss Mercer that was) is something quite extraordinary.

"I had but a bird's eye view of these people, and shall not probably see them again; but I am very much obliged to Mengaldo for letting me see them at all. Whenever I meet with any thing agreeable in this world, it surprises me so much, and pleases me so much (when my pa.s.sions are not interested one way or the other), that I go on wondering for a week to come. I feel, too, in great admiration of the Cardinal Legate's red stockings.

"I found, too, such a pretty epitaph in the Certosa cemetery, or rather two: one was

'Martini Luigi Implora pace;'

the other,

'Lucrezia Picini Implora eterna quiete.'

That was all; but it appears to me that these two and three words comprise and compress all that can be said on the subject,--and then, in Italian, they are absolute music. They contain doubt, hope, and humility; nothing can be more pathetic than the 'implora'

and the modesty of the request;--they have had enough of life--they want nothing but rest--they implore it, and 'eterna quiete.' It is like a Greek inscription in some good old heathen 'City of the Dead.' Pray, if I am shovelled into the Lido churchyard in your time, let me have the 'implora pace,' and nothing else, for my epitaph. I never met with any, ancient or modern, that pleased me a tenth part so much.

"In about a day or two after you receive this letter, I will thank you to desire Edgecombe to prepare for my return. I shall go back to Venice before I village on the Brenta. I shall stay but a few days in Bologna. I am just going out to see sights, but shall not present my introductory letters for a day or two, till I have run over again the place and pictures; nor perhaps at all, if I find that I have books and sights enough to do without the inhabitants.

After that, I shall return to Venice, where you may expect me about the eleventh, or perhaps sooner. Pray make my thanks acceptable to Mengaldo: my respects to the Consuless, and to Mr. Scott. I hope my daughter is well.

"Ever yours, and truly.

"P.S. I went over the Ariosto MS. &c. &c. again at Ferrara, with the castle, and cell, and house, &c. &c.

"One of the Ferrarese asked me if I knew 'Lord Byron,' an acquaintance of his, _now_ at Naples. I told him '_No!_' which was true both ways; for I knew not the impostor, and in the other, no one knows himself. He stared when told that I was 'the real Simon Pure.' Another asked me if I had _not translated_ 'Ta.s.so.' You see what _fame_ is! how _accurate!_ how _boundless!_ I don't know how others feel, but I am always the lighter and the better looked on when I have got rid of mine; it sits on me like armour on the Lord Mayor's champion; and I got rid of all the husk of literature, and the attendant babble, by answering, that I had not translated Ta.s.so, but a namesake had; and by the blessing of Heaven, I looked so little like a poet, that every body believed me."

LETTER 331. TO MR. MURRAY.