Shelley and Byron_. In many ways this is a remarkable book. It is the
one source of information as to the last days of Shelley; concerning
Byron's, others have furnished material. Trelawney is suspected of
mingling some fiction with his truth, but the general tendency
nowadays is to place confidence in these _Recollections_. He may not
always give us a literal report, but he has likely reproduced the
spirit. He is much more sympathetic in his treatment of Shelley than
he is in his account of Byron. Trelawney himself was a remarkable
character. He lived far into the time of a new generation, dying in
his eighty-ninth year in 1881. Mary Shelley, in a letter to Maria
Gisborne, February, 1822, describes him as "A kind of half-Arab
Englishman.... He is clever: for his moral qualities I am yet in the
dark. He is a strange web which I am endeavoring to unravel."
In the _Recollections_ occurs this interesting account of Byron:
Byron has been accused of drinking deeply. Our universities,
certainly, did turn out more famous drinkers than scholars. In the
good old times, to drink lustily was the characteristic of all
Englishmen, just as tuft-hunting is now. Eternal swilling, and the
rank habits and braggadocio manners which it engendered, came to a
climax in George IV's reign. Since then, excessive drinking has gone
out of fashion, but an elaborate style of gastronomy has come in to
fill the void; so there is not much gained. Byron used to boast of the
quantity of wine he had drunk. He said, "We young Whigs imbibed
claret, and so saved our constitutions: the Tories stuck to port, and
destroyed theirs and their country's."
[Illustration: LORD BYRON
From the portrait by T. Phillips]
He bragged, too, of his prowess in riding, boxing, fencing, and even
walking; but to excel in these things feet are as necessary as hands. It
was difficult to avoid smiling at his boasting and self-glorification. In
the water a fin is better than a foot, and in that element he did well;
he was built for floating,--with a flexible body, open chest, broad beam,
and round limbs. If the sea was smooth and warm, he would stay in it for
hours; but as he seldom indulged in this sport, and when he did,
over-exerted himself, he suffered severely; which observing, and knowing
how deeply he would be mortified at being beaten, I had the magnanimity
when contending with him to give in.
He had a misgiving in his mind that I was trifling with him; and one
day as we were on the shore, and the _Bolivar_ at anchor, about three
miles off, he insisted on our trying conclusions; we were to swim to
the yacht, dine in the sea alongside of her, treading water the while,
and then to return to the shore. It was calm and hot, and seeing he
would not be fobbed off, we started. I reached the boat a long time
before he did; ordered the edibles to be ready, and floated until he
arrived. We ate our fare leisurely, from off a grating that floated
alongside, drank a bottle of ale, and I smoked a cigar, which he tried
to extinguish,--as he never smoked. We then put about, and struck off
towards the shore. We had not got a hundred yards on our passage, when
he retched violently, and, as that is often followed by cramp, I urged
him to put his hand on my shoulder that I might tow him back to the
schooner.
"Keep off, you villain, don't touch me. I'll drown ere I give in."
I answered as Iago did to Roderigo:
"'A fig for drowning! drown cats and blind puppies.' I shall go on
board and try the effects of a glass of grog to stay my stomach."
"Come on," he shouted, "I am always better after vomiting."
With difficulty I deluded him back; I went on board, and he sat on the
steps of the accommodation-ladder, with his feet in the water. I
handed him a wineglass of brandy, and screened him from the burning
sun. He was in a sullen mood, but after a time resumed his usual tone.
Nothing could induce him to be landed in the schooner's boat, though I
protested I had had enough of the water.
"You may do as you like," he called out, and plumped in, and we swam
on shore.
He never afterwards alluded to this event, nor to his prowess in
swimming, to me, except in the past tense. He was ill, and kept to his
bed for two days afterwards.
To return to his drinking propensities, after this digression about
his gymnastic prowess: I must say, that of all his vauntings, it was,
luckily for him, the emptiest--that is, after he left England and his
boon companions, as I know nothing of what he did there. From all that
I heard or witnessed of his habits abroad, he was and had been
exceedingly abstemious in eating and drinking. When alone, he drank a
glass or two of small claret or hock, and when utterly exhausted at
night, a single glass of grog; which when I mixed it for him I lowered
to what sailors call "water bewitched," and he never made any remark.
I once, to try him, omitted the alcohol; he then said, "Tre, have you
not forgotten the creature comfort?" I then put in two spoonfuls, and
he was satisfied. This does not look like an habitual toper. His
English acquaintances in Italy were, he said in derision, all
milksops. On the rare occasion of any of his former friends visiting
him, he would urge them to have a carouse with him, but they had grown
wiser. He used to say that little Tommy Moore was the only man he knew
who stuck to the bottle and put him on his mettle, adding, "But he is
a native of the damp isle, where men subsist by suction."
Byron had not damaged his body by strong drinks, but his terror of
getting fat was so great that he reduced his diet to the point of
absolute starvation. He was of that soft, lymphatic temperament which
it is almost impossible to keep within moderate compass, particularly
as in his case his lameness prevented his taking exercise. When he
added to his weight, even standing was painful, so he resolved to keep
down to eleven stone, or shoot himself. He said everything he
swallowed was instantly converted into tallow and deposited on his
ribs.
He was the only human being I ever met with who had sufficient
self-restraint and resolution to resist this proneness to fatten: he
did so, and at Genoa, where he was last weighed, he was ten stone and
nine pounds, and looked much less. This was not from vanity about his
personal appearance, but from a better motive; and as, like Justice
Greedy, he was always hungry, his merit was the greater. Occasionally
he relaxed his vigilance, when he swelled apace.
I remember one of his old friends saying, "Byron, how well you are
looking!" If he had stopped there it had been well, but when he added,
"You are getting fat," Byron's brow reddened, and his eyes
flashed--"Do you call getting fat looking well, as if I were a hog?"
and, turning to me, he muttered, "The beast, I can hardly keep my
hands off him." The man who thus offended him was the husband of the
lady addressed as "Genevra," and the original of his "Zuleika," in the
_Bride of Abydos_. I don't think he had much appetite for his dinner
that day, or for many days, and never forgave the man who, so far from
wishing to offend, intended to pay him a compliment.
Byron said he had tried all sorts of experiments to stay his hunger,
without adding to his bulk. "I swelled," he said, "at one time to
fourteen stone, so I clapped the muzzle to my jaws, and, like the
hibernating animals, consumed my own fat."
He would exist on biscuits and soda-water for days together, then, to
allay the eternal hunger gnawing at his vitals, he would make up a
horrid mess of cold potatoes, rice, fish, or greens, deluged in
vinegar, and gobble it up like a famished dog. On either of these
unsavory dishes, with a biscuit and a glass or two of Rhine wine, he
cared not how sour, he called feasting sumptuously. Upon my observing
he might as well have fresh fish and vegetables, instead of stale, he
laughed and answered:
"I have an advantage over you, I have no palate; one thing is as good
as another to me."
"Nothing," I said, "disagrees with the natural man; he fasts and
gorges, his nerves and brain don't bother him; but if you wish to
live?--
"Who wants to live?" he replied, "not I. The Byrons are a short-lived
race on both sides, father and mother; longevity is hereditary: I am
nearly at the end of my tether. I don't care for death a ----; it is
her sting! I can't bear pain."
His habits and want of exercise damaged him, not drink. It must be
borne in mind, moreover, that his brain was always working at high
pressure. The consequences resulting from his way of life were low or
intermittent fevers; these last had fastened on him in his early
travels in the Levant; and there is this peculiarity in malarial
fevers, that if you have once had them, you are ever afterwards
susceptible to a renewal of their attacks if within their reach, and
Byron was hardly ever out of it. Venice and Ravenna are belted in with
swamps, and fevers are rife in the autumn. By starving his body Byron
kept his brains clear; no man had brighter eyes or a clearer voice;
and his resolute bearing and prompt replies, when excited, gave to
his body an appearance of muscular power that imposed on strangers. I
never doubted, for he was indifferent to life, and prouder than
Lucifer, that if he had drawn his sword in Greece, or elsewhere, he
would have thrown away the scabbard.
[Illustration: PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
From a chalk drawing after the original painting by Miss
Curran]
XV
SHELLEY AS A FRESHMAN
If one were to name ten of the greatest English poets beginning with
Chaucer and ending with Tennyson, the name of Shelley would be
included, although he died before he was thirty years old. Hogg, a
friend of Shelley's, has given us an interesting account of their
meeting when both were freshmen at Oxford.
"At the commencement of Michaelmas Term," writes Hogg, "that is, at
the end of October in the year 1801, I happened one day to sit next a
freshman at dinner; it was his first appearance in hall. His figure
was slight, and his aspect remarkably youthful, even at our table,
where all were very young. He seemed thoughtful and absent. He ate
little and had no acquaintance with any one. I know not how we fell
into conversation, for such familiarity was unusual, and, strange to
say, much reserve prevailed in a society where there could not
possibly be occasion for any." This conversation led into a heated
discussion of the merits of German and Italian literature. When the
time for leaving the dining hall had come, Hogg invited his new
acquaintance over to his rooms. During the transit the thread of the
argument was lost, and while Hogg was lighting the candles Shelley
frankly said that he was not competent to argue the point, as he had
little knowledge of either German or Italian literature. Then Hogg
with equal ingenuousness confessed that he knew but little of Italian
and nothing of German literature.
So the talk went merrily on. Shelley said it made little difference
whether Italian or German literature were the more worthy, for all
literature, what was it but vain trifling? What is the study of
language but the study of words, of phrases, of the names of things?
How much better and wiser to study things themselves!
"I inquired," says Hogg, "a little bewildered, how this was to be
effected. He answered, 'Through the physical sciences, and especially
through chemistry,' and raising his voice, his face flushing as he
spoke, he discoursed, with a degree of animation that far outshone his
zeal in defense of the Germans, of chemistry and chemical analysis."
While this is going on Hogg studies the youthful speaker. What manner
of man is this brilliant guest? "It was a sum of many contradictions.
His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones were large and
strong. He was tall, but he stooped so much that he seemed of low
stature. His clothes were expensive and made after the most approved
mode of the day; but they were tumbled, rumpled, unbrushed. His
gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occasionally even
awkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. His complexion was
delicate and almost feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he was
tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn,
as he said, in shooting. His features, his whole face and
particularly his head, were, in fact, unusually small, yet the last
appeared of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in
fits of absence, and in the agonies (if I may use the word) of anxious
thought, he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his
fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was
singularly wild and rough. In times when it was the mode to imitate
stage-coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and when the hair
was invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, this eccentricity
was very striking. His features were not symmetrical (the mouth,
perhaps, excepted), yet was the effect of the whole extremely
powerful. They breathed an animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid
and preternatural intelligence, that I never met with in any other
countenance. Nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the
intellectual, for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, and
especially (though this will surprise many) that air of profound
religious veneration that characterizes the best works, and chiefly
the frescoes of the great masters of Florence and Rome."
The next day Hogg pays a visit to Shelley's rooms. The furniture was
new and the walls were freshly papered, but everything in the room was
in confusion. "Books, boots, papers, shoes, philosophical instruments,
clothes, pistols, linen, crockery, ammunition, and phials innumerable,
with money, stockings, prints, crucibles, bags, and boxes, were
scattered on the floor in every place, as if the young chemist, in
order to analyze the mystery of creation, had endeavored first to
reconstruct the primeval chaos. The tables, and especially the carpet,
were already stained with large spots of various hues, which
frequently proclaimed the agency of fire. An electrical machine, an
air pump, the galvanic trough, a solar microscope, and large glass
jars were conspicuous amidst the mass of matter. Upon the table by his
side were some books lying open, several letters, a bundle of new
pens, and a bottle of japan ink, that served as an ink-stand, a piece
of deal, lately part of the lid of a box, with many chips, and a
handsome razor that had been used as a knife. There were bottles of
soda-water, sugar, pieces of lemon, and the traces of an effervescent
beverage. Two piles of books supported the tongs, and these upheld a
small glass retort above an argand lamp. I had not been seated many
minutes before the liquor in the vessel boiled over, adding fresh
stains to the table, and rising in fumes with a disagreeable odor.
Shelley snatched the glass quickly, and dashing it in pieces among
ashes under the grate, increased the unpleasant and penetrating
effluvium."
Hogg and Shelley soon became fast friends and met every evening. "I
was enabled," writes Hogg, "to continue my studies in the evening in
consequence of a very remarkable peculiarity. My young and energetic
friend was then overcome by extreme drowsiness, which speedily and
completely vanquished him; he would sleep from two to four hours,
often so soundly that his slumbers resembled a deep lethargy; he lay
occasionally upon the sofa, but more commonly stretched upon the rug
before a large fire, like a cat, and his little round head was
exposed to such fierce heat, that I used to wonder how he was able to
bear it. Sometimes I have interposed some shelter, but rarely with any
permanent effect, for the sleeper usually contrived to turn himself,
and to roll again into the spot where the fire glowed the brightest.
His torpor was generally profound, but he would sometimes discourse
incoherently for a long while in his sleep. At six he would suddenly
compose himself, even in the midst of an animated narrative or of
earnest discussion, and he would lie buried in entire forgetfulness,
in a sweet and mighty oblivion, until ten, when he would suddenly
start up, and rubbing his eyes with great violence, and passing his
fingers swiftly through his long hair, would enter at once into a
vehement argument, or begin to recite verses, either of his own
composition or from the works of others, with a rapidity and an energy
that were often quite painful. During the period of his occultation I
took tea, and read or wrote without interruption. He would sometimes
sleep for a shorter time, for about two hours, postponing for the like
period the commencement of his retreat to the rug, and rising with
tolerable punctuality at ten, and sometimes, though rarely, he was
able entirely to forego the accustomed refreshment."
After supper, which Shelley would take upon awaking at ten, the two
friends would talk and read together until two o'clock.
XVI
THE DEATH OF SHELLEY
In the Protestant cemetery at Rome one can find in an obscure place a
plain stone bearing record of Percy Bysshe Shelley, and these lines
from Shakspere's Tempest:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
And this is the story of how Shelley happens to have a memorial in the
Roman cemetery:
Shelley was a revolutionist in religion and politics, and
revolutionists are seldom popular at home. Shelley's lyric poetry is
unsurpassed, but his theories in some respects will never meet with
the approval of common-sense humanity. England proved uncomfortable
and so he left his country to live in other lands. In 1822 we find him
with his family and a Mr. and Mrs. Williams in Casa Magni, a Roman
villa in a cove on the bay of Spezzia. Here the poet and his friends
became very fond of sailing in a boat which had been made for them.
The boat, which they called the Ariel, was twenty-eight feet long and
eight feet broad, and this with the assistance of a lad they learned
to manage fairly well. To Shelley, whose health had been failing, the
out-of-door life gave renewed vigor.
On the eighth of July, Shelley and Williams, accompanied by a
sailor-lad, left the harbor of Leghorn to go home to their wives, from
whom they had been absent for several days. They had gone to Pisa to
welcome Leigh Hunt to Italy, to meet other friends (among the number
was Byron), and to do some business. Neither Shelley, Williams, nor
the lad, was ever seen alive after that day. As we are indebted to
Hogg for the best pen-pictures of the boy Shelley, so we are indebted
to Trelawney for the best description of the closing scene. So we
shall follow Trelawney's account in the main.
Trelawney was in Leghorn and intended to accompany his friends out of
the harbor in a separate boat, but owing to the refusal of the health
officer of the harbor he was not allowed to go. As from his own vessel
he watched the Ariel, containing the small party happy in the thought
that in seven short hours they should be at home with their loved
ones, his Genoese mate turned to him and said: "They are standing too
much in-shore; the current will set them there." "They will soon have
the land-breeze," replied Trelawney. "Maybe," said the mate, "she will
soon have too much breeze; that gaff topsail is foolish in a boat with
no deck and no sailor on board." Then he added as he pointed to the
southwest, "Look at those black lines and dirty rags hanging on them
out of the sky; look at the smoke on the water; the devil is brewing
mischief."
"Although the sun was obscured by mists," Trelawney writes, "it was
oppressively sultry. There was not a breath of air in the harbor. The
heaviness of the atmosphere and an unwonted stillness benumbed my
senses. I went down into the cabin and sank into a slumber. I was
roused up by a noise overhead, and went on deck. The men were getting
up another chain-cable to let go another anchor. There was a general
stir amongst the shipping; shifting berths, getting down yards and
masts, veering out cables, hauling in of hawsers, letting go anchors,
hailing from the ships and quays, boats sculling rapidly to and fro.
It was almost dusk, although only half-past six o'clock. The sea was
of the color and looked as solid and smooth as a sheet of lead, and
covered with an oily scum. Gusts of wind swept over without ruffling
it, and big drops of rain fell on its surface, rebounding, as if they
could not penetrate it. There was a commotion in the air, made up of
many threatening sounds, coming upon us from the sea. Fishing craft
and coasting vessels, under bare poles, rushed by us in shoals,
running foul of the ships in the harbor. As yet the din and hubbub was
that made by men, but their shrill pipings were suddenly silenced by
the crashing voice of a thunder-squall that burst right over our
heads. For some time no other sounds were to be heard than the
thunder, wind, and rain. When the fury of the storm, which did not
last for more than twenty minutes, had abated and the horizon was in
some degree cleared, I looked to sea anxiously, in the hope of
descrying Shelley's boat amongst the many small craft scattered about.
I watched every speck that loomed on the horizon, thinking that they
would have borne up on their return to the port, as all the other
boats that had gone out in the same direction had done."
Then followed a period of painful suspense. Were they safe or had they
gone down? On the third day Trelawney went to Pisa to ascertain
whether any one had heard anything of Shelley. "I told my fears to
Hunt," he writes, "and then went upstairs to Byron. When I told him
his lip quivered, and his voice faltered as he questioned me."
And what of the wives at Casa Magni awaiting the return of their
husbands? Let one of the two tell the story. Mary is the wife of
Shelley, and Jane is Mrs. Williams.
"Yet I thought when he, when my Shelley returns, I shall be happy--he
will comfort me; if my boy be ill, he will restore him and encourage
me.... Thus a week passed. On Monday, 8th, Jane had a letter from
Edward dated Saturday; he said that he waited at Leghorn for Shelley,
who was at Pisa; that Shelley's return was certain; 'but,' he
continued, 'if I should not come by Monday, I will come in a felucca,
and you may expect me on Thursday evening at furthest.'
"This was Monday, the fatal Monday, but with us it was stormy all day,
and we did not at all suppose that they could put to sea. At twelve at
night we had a thunder-storm. Tuesday it rained all day and was
calm--the sky wept on their graves. On Wednesday, the wind was fair
from Leghorn, and in the evening several feluccas arrived thence. One
brought word they had sailed Monday, but we did not believe them.
Thursday was another day of fair wind, and when twelve at night came,
and we did not see the tall sails of the little boat double the
promontory before us, we began to fear, not the truth, but some
illness, some disagreeable news for their detention."
"Jane got so uneasy that she determined to proceed the next day to
Leghorn in a boat to see what was the matter. Friday came and with it
a heavy sea and bad wind. Jane, however, resolved to be rowed to
Leghorn, since no boat could sail, and busied herself in preparation.
I wished her to wait for letters, since Friday was letter-day. She
would not, but the sea detained her; the swell rose so that no boat
would endure out. At twelve at noon our letters came; there was one
from Hunt to Shelley; it said, 'Pray write to tell us how you got
home, for they say that you had bad weather after you sailed on Monday
and we are anxious.' The paper fell from me. I trembled all over. Jane
read it. 'Then it is all over,' she said. 'No, my dear Jane,' I cried,
'it is not all over, but this suspense is dreadful. Come with me--we
will go to Leghorn, we will post, to be swift and learn our fate.'