"Venice, December 4. 1819.
"You may do as you please, but you are about a hopeless experiment.
Eldon will decide against you, were it only that my name is in the
record. You will also recollect that if the publication is
pronounced against, on the grounds you mention, as _indecent and
blasphemous_, that _I_ lose all right in my daughter's
_guardianship_ and _education_, in short, all paternal authority,
and every thing concerning her, except * * * * * * * * It was so
decided in Shelley's case, because he had written Queen Mab, &c.
&c. However, you can ask the lawyers, and do as you like: I do not
inhibit you trying the question; I merely state one of the
consequences to me. With regard to the copyright, it is hard that
you should pay for a nonentity: I will therefore refund it, which I
can very well do, not having spent it, nor begun upon it; and so we
will be quits on that score. It lies at my banker's.
"Of the Chancellor's law I am no judge; but take up Tom Jones, and
read his Mrs. Waters and Molly Seagrim; or Prior's Hans Carvel and
Paulo Purganti: Smollett's Roderick Random, the chapter of Lord
Strutwell, and many others; Peregrine Pickle, the scene of the
Beggar Girl; Johnson's _London_, for coarse expressions; for
instance, the words '* *,' and '* *;' Anstey's Bath Guide, the
'Hearken, Lady Betty, hearken;'--take up, in short, Pope, Prior,
Congreve, Dryden, Fielding, Smollett, and let the counsel select
passages, and what becomes of _their_ copyright, if his Wat Tyler
decision is to pass into a precedent? I have nothing more to say:
you must judge for yourselves.
"I wrote to you some time ago. I have had a tertian ague; my
daughter Allegra has been ill also, and I have been almost obliged
to run away with a married woman; but with some difficulty, and
many internal struggles, I reconciled the lady with her lord, and
cured the fever of the child with bark, and my own with cold water.
I think of setting out for England by the Tyrol in a few days, so
that I could wish you to direct your next letter to Calais. Excuse
my writing in great haste and late in the morning, or night,
whichever you please to call it. The third Canto of 'Don Juan' is
completed, in about two hundred stanzas; very decent, I believe,
but do not know, and it is useless to discuss until it be
ascertained if it may or may not be a property.
"My present determination to quit Italy was unlooked for; but I
have explained the reasons in letters to my sister and Douglas
Kinnaird, a week or two ago. My progress will depend upon the snows
of the Tyrol, and the health of my child, who is at present quite
recovered; but I hope to get on well, and am
"Yours ever and truly.
"P.S. Many thanks for your letters, to which you are not to
consider this as an answer, but as an acknowledgment."
* * * * *
The struggle which, at the time of my visit to him, I had found Lord
Byron so well disposed to make towards averting, as far as now lay in
his power, some of the mischievous consequences which, both to the
object of his attachment and himself, were likely to result from their
connection, had been brought, as the foregoing letters show, to a crisis
soon after I left him. The Count Guiccioli, on his arrival at Venice,
insisted, as we have seen, that his lady should return with him; and,
after some conjugal negotiations, in which Lord Byron does not appear to
have interfered, the young Contessa consented reluctantly to accompany
her lord to Ravenna, it being first covenanted that, in future, all
communication between her and her lover should cease.
"In a few days after this," says Mr. Hoppner, in some notices of his
noble friend with which he has favoured me, "he returned to Venice, very
much out of spirits, owing to Madame Guiccioli's departure, and out of
humour with every body and every thing around him. We resumed our rides
at the Lido; and I did my best not only to raise his spirits, but to
make him forget his absent mistress, and to keep him to his purpose of
returning to England. He went into no society; and having no longer any
relish for his former occupation, his time, when he was not writing,
hung heavy enough on hand."
The promise given by the lovers not to correspond was, as all parties
must have foreseen, soon violated; and the letters Lord Byron addressed
to the lady, at this time, though written in a language not his own, are
rendered frequently even eloquent by the mere force of the feeling that
governed him--a feeling which could not have owed its fuel to fancy
alone, since now that reality had been so long substituted, it still
burned on. From one of these letters, dated November 25th, I shall so
far presume upon the discretionary power vested in me, as to lay a short
extract or two before the reader--not merely as matters of curiosity,
but on account of the strong evidence they afford of the struggle
between passion and a sense of right that now agitated him.
"You are," he says, "and ever will be, my first thought. But, at this
moment, I am in a state most dreadful, not knowing which way to
decide;--on the one hand, fearing that I should compromise you for ever,
by my return to Ravenna and the consequences of such a step, and, on the
other, dreading that I shall lose both you and myself, and all that I
have ever known or tasted of happiness, by never seeing you more. I pray
of you, I implore you to be comforted, and to believe that I cannot
cease to love you but with my life." [61] In another part he says, "I go
to save you, and leave a country insupportable to me without you. Your
letters to F * * and myself do wrong to my motives--but you will yet see
your injustice. It is not enough that I must leave you--from motives of
which ere long you will be convinced--it is not enough that I must fly
from Italy, with a heart deeply wounded, after having passed all my days
in solitude since your departure, sick both in body and mind--but I must
also have to endure your reproaches without answering and without
deserving them. Farewell! in that one word is comprised the death of my
happiness." [62]
He had now arranged every thing for his departure for England, and had
even fixed the day, when accounts reached him from Ravenna that the
Contessa was alarmingly ill;--her sorrow at their separation having so
much preyed upon her mind, that even her own family, fearful of the
consequences, had withdrawn all opposition to her wishes, and now, with
the sanction of Count Guiccioli himself, entreated her lover to hasten
to Ravenna. What was he, in this dilemma, to do? Already had he
announced his coming to different friends in England, and every dictate,
he felt, of prudence and manly fortitude urged his departure. While thus
balancing between duty and inclination, the day appointed for his
setting out arrived; and the following picture, from the life, of his
irresolution on the occasion, is from a letter written by a female
friend of Madame Guiccioli, who was present at the scene:--"He was ready
dressed for the journey, his gloves and cap on, and even his little cane
in his hand. Nothing was now waited for but his coming down
stairs,--his boxes being already all on board the gondola. At this
moment, my Lord, by way of pretext, declares, that if it should strike
one o'clock before every thing was in order (his arms being the only
thing not yet quite ready), he would not go that day. The hour strikes,
and he remains!"[63]
The writer adds, "it is evident he has not the heart to go;" and the
result proved that she had not judged him wrongly. The very next day's
tidings from Ravenna decided his fate, and he himself, in a letter to
the Contessa, thus announces the triumph which she had achieved. "F * *
* will already have told you, _with her accustomed sublimity_, that Love
has gained the victory. I could not summon up resolution enough to leave
the country where you are, without, at least, once more seeing you. On
_yourself_, perhaps, it will depend, whether I ever again shall leave
you. Of the rest we shall speak when we meet. You ought, by this time,
to know which is most conducive to your welfare, my presence or my
absence. For myself, I am a citizen of the world--all countries are
alike to me. You have ever been, since our first acquaintance, _the sole
object of my thoughts_. My opinion was, that the best course I could
adopt, both for your peace and that of all your family, would have been
to depart and go far, _far_ away from you;--since to have been near and
not approach you would have been, for me, impossible. You have however
decided that I am to return to Ravenna. I shall accordingly return--and
shall _do_--and _be_ all that you wish. I cannot say more.[64]
On quitting Venice he took leave of Mr. Hoppner in a short but cordial
letter, which I cannot better introduce than by prefixing to it the few
words of comment with which this excellent friend of the noble poet has
himself accompanied it:--"I need not say with what painful feeling I
witnessed the departure of a person who, from the first day of our
acquaintance, had treated me with unvaried kindness, reposing a
confidence in me which it was beyond the power of my utmost efforts to
deserve; admitting me to an intimacy which I had no right to claim, and
listening with patience, and the greatest good temper, to the
remonstrances I ventured to make upon his conduct."
[Footnote 61: "Tu sei, e sarai sempre mio primo pensier. Ma in questo
momento sono in un' stato orribile non sapendo cosa decidere;--temendo,
da una parte, comprometterti in eterno col mio ritorno a Ravenna, e
colle sue consequenze; e, dal' altra perderti, e me stesso, e tutto quel
che ho conosciuto o gustato di felicità, nel non vederti più. Ti prego,
ti supplico calmarti, e credere che non posso cessare ad amarti che
colla vita."]
[Footnote 62: "Io parto, per _salvarti_, e lascio un paese divenuto
insopportabile senza di te. Le tue lettere alla F * *, ed anche a me
stesso fanno torto ai miei motivi; ma col tempo vedrai la tua
ingiustizia. Tu parli del dolor--io lo sento, ma mi mancano le parole.
Non basta lasciarti per dei motivi dei quali tu eri persuasa (non molto
tempo fa)--non basta partire dall' Italia col cuore lacerato, dopo aver
passato tutti i giorni dopo la tua partenza nella solitudine, ammalato
di corpo e di anima--ma ho anche a sopportare i tuoi rimproveri, senza
replicarti, e senza meritarli. Addio--in quella parola è compresa la
morte _di_ mia felicità."
The close of this last sentence exhibits one of the very few instances
of incorrectness that Lord Byron falls into in these letters;--the
proper construction being "_della_ mia felicità."]
[Footnote 63: "Egli era tutto vestito di viaggio coi guanti fra le mani,
col suo bonnet, e persino colla piccola sua canna; non altro aspettavasi
che egli scendesse le scale, tutti i bauli erano in barca. Milord fa la
pretesta che se suona un ora dopo il mezzodi e che non sia ogni cosa
all' ordine (poichè le armi sole non erano in pronto) egli non
partirebbe più per quel giorno. L'ora suona ed egli resta."]
[Footnote 64: "La F * * ti avra detta, _colla sua solita sublimità_, che
l'Amor ha vinto. Io non ho potuto trovare forza di anima per lasciare il
paese dove tu sei, senza vederti almeno un' altra volta:--forse
dipenderà da _te_ se mai ti lascio più. Per il resto parleremo. Tu
dovresti adesso sapere cosa sarà più convenevole al tuo ben essere la
mia presenza o la mia lontananza. Io sono cittadino del mondo--tutti i
paesi sono eguali per me. Tu sei stata sempre (dopo che ci siamo
conosciuti) _l'unico oggetto di miei_ pensieri. Credeva che il miglior
partito per la pace tua e la pace di tua famiglia fosse il mio partire,
e andare ben _lontano_; poichè stare vicino e non avvicinarti sarebbe
per me impossible. Ma tu hai deciso che io debbo ritornare a
Ravenna--tornaro--e farò--e sarò ciò die tu vuoi. Non posso dirti di
più."]
* * * * *