_By the Countess of Blessington._
*** Our readers will recollect those letters in the second volume of
Moore's Byron, addressed to Lady B----, which confer such additional value
on that work. The whole of the journal, in which those letters, given by
Lady B---- to Mr. Moore, were entered, (and which journal was never shown
to Mr. Moore, nor indeed till now confided to any one,) is in our hands,
and will appear, from time to time, in the _New Monthly_, till concluded.
It is full of the most varied interest, and we believe that it will be
found to convey at least as natural and unexaggerated an account of Lord
Byron's character as has yet been presented to the public.
_Genoa, April 1st_, 1823.--Saw Lord Byron for the first time. The
impression for the first few minutes disappointed me, as I had, both from
the portraits and descriptions given, conceived a different idea of him. I
had fancied him taller, with a more dignified and commanding air; and I
looked in vain for the hero-looking sort of person with whom I had so long
identified him in imagination. His appearance is, however, highly
prepossessing; his head is finely shaped, and the forehead open, high, and
noble; his eyes are grey and full of expression, but one is visibly larger
than the other; the nose is large and well shaped, but from being a little
_too thick_, it looks better in profile than in front-face: his mouth is
the most remarkable feature in his face, the upper lip of Grecian
shortness, and the corners descending; the lips full, and finely cut. In
speaking, he shows his teeth very much, and they are white and even; but I
observed that even in his smile--and he smiles frequently--there is
something of a scornful expression in his mouth that is evidently natural,
and not, as many suppose, affected. This particularly struck me. His chin
is large and well shaped, and finishes well the oval of his face. He is
extremely thin, indeed so much so that his figure has almost a boyish air;
his face is peculiarly pale, but not the paleness of ill-health, as its
character is that of fairness, the fairness of a dark-haired person--and
his hair (which is getting rapidly grey) is of a very dark brown, and
curls naturally: he uses a good deal of oil in it, which makes it look
still darker. His countenance is full of expression, and changes with the
subject of conversation; it gains on the beholder the more it is seen, and
leaves an agreeable impression. I should say that melancholy was its
prevailing character, as I observed that when any observation elicited a
smile--and they were many, as the conversation was gay and playful--it
appeared to linger but for a moment on his lip, which instantly resumed
its former expression of seriousness. His whole appearance is remarkably
gentlemanlike, and he owes nothing of this to his toilette, as his coat
appears to have been many years made, is much too large--and all his
garments convey the idea of having been purchased ready made, so ill do
they fit him. There is a _gaucherie_ in his movements, which evidently
proceeds from the perpetual consciousness of his lameness, that appears to
haunt him; for he tries to conceal his foot when seated, and when walking,
has a nervous rapidity in his manner. He is very slightly lame, and the
deformity of his foot is so little remarkable that I am not now aware
which foot it is. His voice and accent are peculiarly agreeable, but
effeminate--clear, harmonious, and so distinct, that though his general
tone in speaking is rather low than high, not a word is lost. His manners
are as unlike my preconceived notions of them as is his appearance. I had
expected to find him a dignified, cold, reserved, and haughty person,
resembling those mysterious personages he so loves to paint in his works,
and with whom he has been so often identified by the good-natured world;
but nothing can be more different; for were I to point out the prominent
defect of Lord Byron, I should say it was flippancy, and a total want of
that natural self-possession and dignity which ought to characterize a man
of birth and education.
_April 2nd_.--We had scarcely finished our _déjeuné à la fourchette_ this
day when Lord Byron was announced: he sent up two printed cards, in an
envelope addressed to us, and soon followed them. He appeared still more
gay and cheerful than the day before--made various inquiries about all our
mutual friends in England--spoke of them with affectionate interest, mixed
with a badinage in which none of their little defects were spared; indeed
candour obliges me to own that their defects seemed to have made a deeper
impression on his mind than their good qualities (though he allowed all
the latter) by the _gusto_ with which he entered into them.
He talked of our mutual friend Moore, and of his _Lalla Rookh_, which he
said, though very beautiful, had disappointed him, adding, that Moore
would go down to posterity by his _Melodies_, which were all perfect. He
said that he had never been so much _affected_ as on hearing Moore sing
some of them, particularly "When first I met Thee," which, he said, made
him shed tears: "But," added he, with a look full of archness, "it was
after I had drunk a certain portion of very potent white brandy." As he
laid a peculiar stress on the word _affected_, I smiled, and the sequel of
the white brandy made me smile again: he asked me the cause, and I
answered that his observation reminded me of the story of a lady offering
her condolence to a poor Irishwoman on the death of her child, who stated
that she had never been more affected than on the event; the poor woman,
knowing the hollowness of the compliment, answered with all the quickness
of her country, "Sure, then, Ma'am, that is saying a great deal, for you
were always affected." Lord Byron laughed, and said my _apropos_ was very
wicked--but I maintained it was very just. He spoke much more warmly of
Moore's social attractions as a companion, which he said were unrivalled,
than of his merits as a poet.
When Lord Byron came to dine with us on Thursday, he arrived an hour
before the usual time, and appeared in good spirits. He said that he found
the passages and stairs filled with people, who stared at him very much;
but he did not seem vexed at this homage, for so it certainly was meant,
as the Albergo della Ville, where we resided, being filled with English,
all were curious to see their distinguished countryman. He was very gay at
dinner, ate of most of the dishes, expressed pleasure at partaking of a
plum pudding, _à l'Anglaise_, made by one of our English servants; was
helped twice, and observed, that he hoped he should not shock us by eating
so much: "But," added he, "the truth is, that for several months I have
been following a most abstemious _régime_, living almost entirely on
vegetables; and now that I see a good dinner, I cannot resist temptation,
though to-morrow I shall suffer for my gormandize, as I always do when I
indulge in luxuries." He drank three glasses of champagne, saying, that as
he considered it a _jour de fête_, he would eat, drink, and be merry.
He talked of Mr. ----, who was then our Minister at Genoa. "H----," said
he, "is a thorough good-natured and hospitable man, keeps an excellent
table, and is as fond of good things as I am, but has not my forbearance.
I received, some time ago, a _Pâté de Perigord_, and finding it excellent,
I determined on sharing it with H----; but here my natural selfishness
suggested that it would be wiser for me, who had so few dainties, to keep
this for myself, than to give it to H----, who had so many. After half an
hour's debate between selfishness and generosity, which do you think"
(turning to me) "carried the point?"--I answered, "Generosity, of
course."--"No, by Jove!" said he, "no such thing; selfishness in this case,
as in most others, triumphed; I sent the _pâté_ to my friend H----,
because I felt another dinner off it would play the deuce with me; and so
you see, after all, he owed the _pâté_ more to selfishness than
generosity." Seeing us smile at this, he said:--"When you know me better,
you will find that I am the most selfish person in the world; I have,
however, the merit, if it be one, of not only being perfectly conscious of
my faults, but of never denying them; and this surely is something, in
this age of cant and hypocrisy."
In all his conversations relative to Lady Byron, and they are frequent, he
declares that he is totally unconscious of the cause of her leaving him,
but suspects that the illnatured interposition of Mrs. Charlemont led to
it. It is a strange business! He declares that he left no means untried to
effect a reconciliation, and always adds with bitterness, "A day will
arrive when I shall be avenged. I feel that I shall not live long, and
when the grave has closed over me, what must she feel?" All who wish well
to Lady Byron must desire that she should not survive her husband, for the
all-atoning grave that gives oblivion to the errors of the dead, clothes
those of the living in such sombre colours to their own too-late awakened
feelings, as to render them wretched for life, and more than avenges the
real, or imagined wrongs of those we have lost for ever.
When Lord Byron was praising the mental and personal qualifications of
Lady Byron, I asked him how all that he now said agreed with certain
sarcasms supposed to bear a reference to her, in his works. He smiled,
shook his head, and said they were meant to spite and vex her, when he was
wounded and irritated at her refusing to receive or answer his letters;
that he was not sincere in his implied censures, and that he was sorry he
had written them; but notwithstanding this regret, and all his good
resolutions to avoid similar sins, he might on renewed provocation recur
to the same vengeance, though he allowed it was petty and unworthy of him.
Lord Byron speaks of his sister, Mrs. Leigh, constantly, and always with
strong expressions of affection; he says she is the most faultless person
he ever knew, and that she was his only source of consolation in his
troubles on the separation.
Byron is a great talker, his flippancy ceases in a _tête-à-tête_, and he
becomes sententious, abandoning himself to the subject and seeming to
think aloud, though his language has the appearance of stiffness, and is
quite opposed to the trifling chit-chat that he enters into when in
general society. I attribute this to his having lived so much alone, as
also to the desire he now professes of applying himself to prose writing.
He affects a sort of Johnsonian tone, likes very much to be listened to,
and seems to observe the effect he produces on his hearer. In mixed
society his ambition is to appear the man of fashion, he adopts a light
tone of badinage and persiflage that does not sit gracefully on him, but
is always anxious to turn the subject to his own personal affairs, or
feelings, which are either lamented with an air of melancholy, or dwelt on
with playful ridicule, according to the humour he happens to be in.
Byron has remarkable penetration in discovering the characters of those
around him, and he piques himself extremely on it: he also thinks he has
fathomed the recesses of his own mind; but he is mistaken: with much that
is _little_ (which he suspects) in his character, there is much that is
great, that he does not give himself credit for: his first impulses are
always good, but his temper, which is impatient, prevents his acting on
the cool dictates of reason; and it appears to me, that in judging himself,
Byron mistakes temper for character, and takes the ebullitions of the
first, for the indications of the nature of the second. He declares, that
in addition to his other failings, avarice is now established. This new
vice, like all the others, he attributes to himself, he talks of as one
would name those of an acquaintance, in a sort of deprecating, yet half
mocking tone; as much as to say, you see I know all my faults better than
you do, though I don't choose to correct them: indeed, it has often
occurred to me, that he brings forward his defects, as if in anticipation
of some one else exposing them, which he would not like; as though he
affects the contrary, he is jealous of being found fault with, and shows
it in a thousand ways.
He affects to dislike hearing his works praised or referred to; I say
affects, because I am sure it is not real or natural; as he who loves
praise, as Byron evidently does, in other things, cannot dislike it for
that in which he must be conscious it is deserved. He refers to his feats
in horsemanship, shooting at a mark, and swimming, in a way that proves he
likes to be complimented on them; and nothing appears to give him more
satisfaction than being considered a man of fashion, who had great success
in fashionable society in London, when he resided there. He is peculiarly
compassionate to the poor; I remarked that he rarely, in our rides, passed
a mendicant without giving him charity, which was invariably bestowed with
gentleness and kindness; this was still more observable if the person was
deformed, as if he sympathized with the object.
Byron is very fond of gossiping, and of hearing what is going on in the
London fashionable world; his friends keep him _au courant_, and any
little scandal amuses him very much. I observed this to him one day, and
added, that I thought his mind had been too great to descend to such
trifles! he laughed and said with mock gravity, "Don't you know that the
trunk of an elephant that can lift the most ponderous weights, disdains
not to take up the most minute? This is the case with my _great_ mind,
(laughing anew,) and you must allow the simile is worthy the subject.
Jesting apart, I do like a little scandal--I believe all English people do.
An Italian lady, Madame Benzoni, talking to me on the prevalence of this
taste among my compatriots, observed, that when she first knew the English,
she thought them the most spiteful and ill-natured people in the world,
from hearing them constantly repeating evil of each other; but having seen
various amiable traits in their characters, she had arrived at the
conclusion, that they were not naturally _méchant_; but that living in a
country like England, where severity of morals punishes so heavily any
dereliction from propriety, each individual, to prove personal correctness,
was compelled to attack the _sins_ of his or her acquaintance, as it
furnished an opportunity of expressing their abhorrence by words, instead
of proving it by actions, which might cause some self-denial to themselves.
This," said Byron, "was an ingenious, as well as charitable supposition;
and we must all allow that it is infinitely more easy to decry and expose
the sins of others, than to correct our own; and many find the first so
agreeable an occupation, that it precludes the second--this, at least, is
my case."
"The Italians do not understand the English," said Byron; "indeed, how can
they? for they (the Italians) are frank, simple, and open in their natures,
following the bent of their inclinations, which they do not believe to be
wicked; while the English, to conceal the indulgence of theirs, daily
practise hypocrisy, falsehood, and uncharitableness; so that to _one_
error is added many crimes." Byron had now got on a favourite subject, and
went on decrying hypocrisy and cant, mingling sarcasms and bitter
observations on the false delicacy of the English. It is strange, but true
as strange, that he could not, or at least did not, distinguish the
distinction between cause and effect, in this case. The respect for virtue
will always cause spurious imitations of it to be given; and what he calls
hypocrisy, is but the respect to public opinion that induces people, who
have not courage to correct their errors, at least to endeavour to conceal
them; and Cant is the homage that Vice pays to Virtue.[1] We do not value
the diamond less, because there are so many worthless imitations of it,
and Goodness loses nothing of her intrinsic value because so many wish to
be thought to possess it. That nation may be considered to possess the
most virtue, where it is the most highly appreciated; and that the least,
where it is so little understood, that the semblance is not even assumed.
Byron is, I believe, sincere in his belief in supernatural appearances; he
assumes a grave and mysterious air when he talks on the subject, which he
is fond of doing, and has told me some extraordinary stories relative to
Mr. Shelley, who, he assures me, had an implicit belief in ghosts. He also
told me that Mr. Shelley's spectre had appeared to a lady, walking in a
garden, and he seemed to lay great stress on this. Though some of the
wisest of mankind, as witness Johnson, shared this weakness in common with
Byron; still there is something so unusual in our matter-of-fact days in
giving way to it, that I was at first doubtful that Byron was serious in
his belief. He is also superstitious about days, and other trifling
things,--believes in lucky and unlucky days,--dislikes undertaking any
thing on a Friday, helping or being helped to salt at table, spilling salt
or oil, letting bread fall, and breaking mirrors; in short, he gives way
to a thousand fantastical notions, that prove that even _l'esprit le plus
fort_ has its weak side.
[1] Rouchefoucault.
* * * * *