"Remember me."
On returning home, Byron read what she had written, and, filled with disgust and indignation, he wrote the famous lines
"Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not,"
and sent her back several of her letters sealed up. "Glenarvon" was her revenge. She painted Byron in fiendish colors, giving herself all the qualities he possessed, so as to appear an angel, and to him all the pa.s.sions of the "Giaour," of the "Corsair," and of "Childe Harold," so that he might be taken for a demon.
In this novel, the result of revenge, truth a.s.serts its rights, notwithstanding all the contradictions of which the book is full. Thus Lady L---- can not help depicting Byron under some of his real characteristics. She was asked, for instance, what she thought of him, when she met him for the first time after hearing of his great reputation, and she answers, while gazing at the soft loveliness of his smile,--
"What do I think? I think that never did the hand of G.o.d imprint upon a human form so lovely, so glorious an expression."
And further she adds:--
"Never did the Sculptor"s hand, in the sublimest product of his talent, imagine a form and a face so exquisite, so full of animation or so varied in expression. Can one see him without being moved? Oh! is there in the nature of woman the possibility of listening to him, without cherishing every word he utters? and having listened to him once, is it possible for any human heart ever to forget those accents which awaken every sentiment and calm every fear?"
Again:--
"Oh better far to have died than to see or listen to Glenarvon. When he smiled, his smile was like the light of heaven; his voice was more soothing from its softness than the softest music. In his manner there was such a charm, that it would have been vain to affect even to be offended by its sweetness."
But while she was obliged to obey the voice of pa.s.sion and of truth, she took on the other hand as a motto to her novel that of the "Corsair,"
which even applied to the "Corsair" is not altogether just, for he was gifted with more than "one virtue:--"
"He left a Corsair"s name to other times, Link"d with one virtue and a thousand crimes."
It is, however, fair to add, that this revenge became the punishment of the heroine; she never again found any rest, struggled against a troubled mind, and never succeeded in forgetting her love. It is even said that, diseased in mind and body, she was one day walking along one of the alleys of her beautiful place, on the road to Newstead Abbey, when she saw a funeral procession coming up the road in the direction of Newstead. Having inquired whose funeral it was, and being told it was that of the great poet, whose mortal remains were being conveyed to their last resting-place, she fainted, and died a few days afterward.
His name was the last word she uttered, and this she did with love and despair. In London, and wherever the auth.o.r.ess was known, the book had no success, but the case was different abroad and in the provinces.
Attracted as he always was toward all that is good, great, and sincere, Byron was wont to break the monotony of his retired life in the villa Diodati by frequent visits to Madame de Stael at her country-seat, "Coppet." She was the first who mentioned "Glenarvon" to him, and when Murray wrote to him on the subject, Byron simply replied,--
"Of Glenarvon, Madame de Stael told me (ten days ago at Coppet) marvellous and grievous things; but I have seen nothing of it but the motto, which promises amiably "for us and for our tragedy" ... "a name to all succeeding," etc. The generous moment selected for the publication is probably its kindest accompaniment, and, truth to say, the time _was_ well chosen."[11]
"I have not even a guess at its contents," said he, and he really attached no importance to its publication. But a few days later he had a proof of the bad effect which its appearance had produced, for all this venom against him had so poisoned the mind of a poor old woman of sixty-three, an auth.o.r.ess, that on Lord Byron entering Madame de Stael"s drawing-room one afternoon, she fainted, or feigned to do so. Poor soul!
a writer of novels herself, and probably most partial to such reading, she had, no doubt, from the perusal of "Glenarvon" gleaned the idea that she had before her eyes that hideous monster of seduction and perpetrator of crimes who was therein depicted!
At last Lord Byron read this too famous novel, and wrote to Moore as follows on the subject:--
"Madame de Stael lent me "Glenarvon" last autumn. It seems to me that if the author had written the truth, and nothing but the truth, and the whole truth, the novel might not only have been more romantic but more amusing. As for the likeness, it can not be good, I did not sit long enough for it."
From Venice Byron wrote as follows to Murray, in consequence of a series of articles which appeared in Germany, where a serious view had been taken of the novel of "Glenarvon:"--
"An Italian translation of "Glenarvon" was lately printed at Venice. The censor (Sgr. Petrolini) refused to sanction the publication till he had seen me on the subject. I told him that I did not recognize the slightest relation between that book and myself; but that, whatever opinions might be held on that subject, I would never prevent or oppose the publication of any book in any language, on my own private account, and desired him (against his inclination) to permit the poor translator to publish his labors. It is going forward in consequence. You may say this, with my compliments, to the author."[12]
Madame de Stael had a great affection for Lord Byron, but his detractors had found their way into her house.[13] Among these was a distinguished lawyer, who had never been injured by any speech or word of Lord Byron, but who, setting himself up as an amateur enemy of the poet, had, under an anonymous designation, been one of his bitterest detractors in the "Edinburgh Review," on the occasion of the publication of his early poems. This same lawyer endeavored to gain Madame de Stael over to his opinion of Byron"s merit, probably on account of the very knowledge that he had of the harm he had done him; hatred, like n.o.bility, has its obligations. But Madame de Stael, who, on reading "Farewell," was wont to say that she wished almost she had been as unfortunate as Lady Byron, was too elevated in mind and too n.o.ble in character to listen quietly to the abuse of Byron in which his enemies indulged. She, however, tried to induce Lord Byron to become reconciled to his wife, on the ground that one should never struggle against the current of public opinion. Madame de Stael actually succeeded in obtaining his permission to endeavor to effect this reconciliation; but the lawyer before mentioned used every argument to prevent her pursuing this project of mediation.
Lord Byron"s biographers have told how Lady Byron received this proposal; which, after the way in which he had been treated, appears to have been, on the part of Byron, an act of almost superhuman generosity.
Such an offer should have moved any being gifted with a heart and a soul. But I will not here speak of her refusal and of its consequences; all I wish to state is, that the calumnies put forward against him being too absurd for Byron to condescend to notice, a.s.sumed a degree of consistency which deceived the public, and even made dupes of superior men, who in their turn contributed to make dupes of others. At this time, then, when the war and the continental blockade were at an end, when each and every one came pouring on to the Continent, did the star of Byron begin to shine on the European horizon; but, instead of appearing as a sublime and bountiful star, it appeared surrounded by dark and ominous clouds.
Lamartine, who was then travelling in Switzerland, was able to find in this sad state of things materials for his fine poem "Meditation," and for doubts whether Byron was "an angel, or a demon," according to the manner in which he was viewed, be it as a poet or as a man; and, as if all this were not enough, a host of bad writings were attributed to his pen, which brought forth the following expressions in a letter to Murray, his publisher:--
"I had hoped that some other lie would have replaced and succeeded to the thousand and one falsehoods ama.s.sed during the winter. I can forgive all that is said of or against me, but not what I am made to say or sing under my own name. I have quite enough to answer for my own writings. It would be too much even for Job to bear what he has not said. I believe that the Arabian patriarch, when he wished his enemies had written a book, did not go so far as to be willing to sign his name on the first page."
But the public mind was so disposed to look at Byron in the light of a demon, as traced by Lamartine, that when some young scattered-brain youth published out of vanity, or perhaps for speculative motives, another monstrous invention, in the hope of pa.s.sing it off as a work of Byron, he actually succeeded for some time in his object without being discovered.
"Strange destiny both of books and their authors!" exclaims the writer of the "Essai sur Lord Byron," published in 1823,--"an evidently apocryphal production, which was at once seen not to be genuine by all persons of taste, notwithstanding the forgery of the t.i.tle, has contributed as much to make Byron known in France as have his best poems. A certain P---- had impudence enough to attribute indirectly to the n.o.ble lord himself the absurd and disgusting tale of the "Vampire,"
which Galignani, in Paris, hastened to publish as an acknowledged work of Byron. Upon this Lord Byron hastened to remonstrate with Messieurs Galignani; but unfortunately too late, and after the reputation of the book was already widespread. Our theatres appropriated the subject, and the story of Lord Ruthven swelled into two volumes which created some sensation."[14]
Goethe also believed the novels to be true stories, and was especially impressed with "Glenarvon."[15] It is reported that he became jealous of Byron on the appearance of the poem of "Manfred." If he were not, it is at least certain that the pagan patriarch never could sympathize with the new generation of Christian geniuses.
On the 7th of June, however, of the year 1820, Byron writes as follows to Murray, from Ravenna:--
"Inclosed is something which will interest you, to wit, the opinion of the greatest man of Germany, perhaps of Europe, upon one of the great men of your advertis.e.m.e.nts (all "famous hands," as Jacob Tonson used to say of his ragam.u.f.fins)--in short, a critique of Goethe"s upon "Manfred." There is the original, an English translation, and an Italian one; keep them all in your archives, for the opinions of such a man as Goethe, whether favorable or not, are always interesting; and this more so, as being favorable. His "Faust" I never read, for I don"t know German; but Matthew Monk Lewis, in 1816, at Geneva, translated most of it to me _viva voce_, and I was naturally much struck with it: but it was the "Steinbach," and the "Yungfrau," and something else, much more than "Faustus," that made me write "Manfred." The first scene, however, and that of "Faustus" are very similar."
One can scarcely conceive how so great a mind as that of Goethe could have been duped by such mystifications. And yet this is what he wrote at that time in a German paper relative to Byron"s "Manfred:"--
"We find in this tragedy the quintessence of the most astonishing talent borne to be its own tormentor. The character of Lord Byron"s life and poetry hardly permits a just and equitable appreciation. He has often enough confessed what it is that torments him. He has repeatedly portrayed it, and scarcely any one feels compa.s.sion for this intolerable suffering over which he is ever laboriously ruminating. There are, properly speaking, two females whose phantoms forever haunt him, and which, in this piece also, perform princ.i.p.al parts, one under the name of Astarte, the other without form or actual presence, and merely a voice. Of the horrid occurrence which took place with the former the following is related. When a bold and enterprising young man, he won the affections of a Florentine lady. Her husband discovered the amour, and murdered his wife; but the murderer was the same night found dead in the street, and there was no one to whom any suspicion could be attached. Lord Byron removed from Florence, and these spirits haunted him all his life after.
"This romantic incident is rendered highly probable by innumerable allusions to it in his poems."
And Moore adds:--"The grave confidence with which the venerable critic traces the fancies of his brother poet to real persons and events, making no difficulty even of a double murder at Florence, to furnish grounds for his theory, affords an amusing instance of the disposition, so prevalent throughout Europe, to picture Byron as a man full of marvels and mysteries, as well in his life as his poetry. To these exaggerated or wholly false notions of him, the numerous fictions palmed upon the world, of his romantic tours and wonderful adventures in places he never saw, and with persons who never existed, have, no doubt, considerably contributed, and the consequence is, so utterly out of truth and nature are the representations of his life and character long current upon the Continent, that it may be questioned whether the real "flesh and blood" hero of these pages (the social, practical-minded, and, with all his faults and eccentricities, English Lord Byron) may not, to the over-exalted imaginations of most of his foreign admirers, appear only an ordinary, unromantic, and prosaic personage."
Then, quoting some of the falsehoods which were spread everywhere about Byron, Moore says:--
"Of this kind are the accounts, filled with all sorts of circ.u.mstantial wonders, of his residence in the island of Mytilene; his voyages to Sicily, to Ithaca, with the Countess Guiccioli, etc. But the most absurd, perhaps, of all these fabrications are the stories told by Pouqueville, of the poet"s religious conferences in the cell of Father Paul, at Athens; and the still more unconscionable fiction in which Rizo has indulged, in giving the details of a pretended theatrical scene, got up (according to this poetical historian) between Lord Byron and the Archbishop of Arta, at the tomb of Botzaris, at Missolonghi."
As the numerous causes which led to the false judgment of Byron"s true character never ceased to exist during his lifetime, one consequence has been that those who never knew him have never been able to arrive at the truth of matters concerning him. The contrast which existed between the real and imaginary personage was such as to cause the greatest astonishment to all those who, having hitherto adopted the received notions about him, at last came to know him at Ravenna, at Pisa, at Genoa, and in Greece, up to the very last days of his life. But, before quoting some of these fortunate travellers, I must transcribe a few more pa.s.sages from Moore:
"On my rejoining him in town this spring, I found the enthusiasm about his writings and himself, which I had left so prevalent, both in the world of literature and society, grown, if any thing, still more genuine and intense. In the immediate circle perhaps around him, familiarity of intercourse must have begun to produce its usual disenchanting effect."
"His own liveliness and unreserve, on a more intimate acquaintance, would not be long in dispelling that charm of poetic sadness, which to the eyes of distant observers hung about him; while the romantic notions, connected by some of his fair readers with those past and nameless loves alluded to in his poems, ran some risk of abatement from too near an acquaintance with the supposed objects of his fancy and fondness at present."
"But, whatever of its first romantic impression the personal character of the poet may, from such causes, have lost in the circle he most frequented, this disappointment of the imagination was far more than compensated by the frank, social, and engaging qualities, both of disposition and manner, which, on a nearer intercourse, he disclosed, as well as by that entire absence of any literary a.s.sumption or pedantry, which ent.i.tled him fully to the praise bestowed by Sprat upon Cowley--that few could ever discover he was a great poet by his discourse."
While thus by his friends, he was seen in his true colors, in his weakness and in his strength, to strangers, and such as were out of this immediate circle, the sternness of his imaginary personages were, by the greater number of them, supposed to belong, not only as regarded mind, but manners, to himself. So prevalent and persevering has been this notion, that, in some disquisitions on his character published since his death, and containing otherwise many just and striking views, we find, in the portrait drawn of him, such features as the following:--"Lord Byron had a stern, direct, severe mind: a sarcastic, disdainful, gloomy temper. He had no sympathy with a flippant cheerfulness: upon the surface was sourness, discontent, displeasure, ill-will. Of this sort of double aspect which he presented, the aspect in which he was viewed by the world and by his friends, he was himself fully aware; and it not only amused him, but indeed to a certain extent, flattered his pride."
"And if there was ever any tendency to derangement in his mental conformation, on this point alone could it be p.r.o.nounced to have manifested itself. In the early part of my acquaintance with him, when he most gave way to this humor, I have known him more than once, as we have sat together after dinner, to fall seriously into this sort of dark and self-accusing mood, and throw out hints of his past life with an air of gloom and mystery designed evidently to awaken curiosity and interest.... It has sometimes occurred to me that the occult cause of his lady"s separation from him, round which herself and her legal adviser have thrown such formidable mystery, may have been nothing more, after all, than some imposture of this kind, intended only to mystify and surprise, while it was taken in sober seriousness."
I have mentioned elsewhere how Moore, while justly appreciating the consequences of this youthful eccentricity,--of which later, but too late, Byron corrected himself,--does not equally appreciate the motives, or rather the princ.i.p.al motive, which gave rise to it. As, however, he judges rightly of the results, I shall continue to quote him for the reader"s benefit.
"M. Galignani, having expressed a wish to be furnished with a short memoir of Lord Byron for the purpose of prefixing it to the French edition of his works, I had said jestingly, in a preceding letter to his lordship, that it would but be a fair satire on the disposition of the world to "remonster his features" if he would write for the public, English as well as French, a sort of mock heroic account of himself, outdoing in horrors and wonders all that had been yet related or believed of him, and leaving even Goethe"s story of the double murder at Florence far behind."
Lord Byron replied from Pisa, on the 12th of December, 1821:--"What you say about Galignani"s two biographies is very amusing; and, if I were not lazy, I would certainly do what you desire. But I doubt my present stock of facetiousness--that is, of good serious humor--so as not to let the cat out of the bag. I wish you would undertake it. I will forgive and _indulge_ you (like a pope) beforehand, for any thing ludicrous that might keep those fools in their own dear belief that a man is a _loup-garou_.
"I suppose I told you that the "Giaour" story had actually some foundation in fact.... I should not like marvels to rest upon any account of my own, and shall say nothing about it.... The worst of any real adventures is that they involve living people."
He at last tired of always appearing in the guise of a corsair, or of a mysterious criminal, or of a hero of melodrama. These various disguises had afforded him too much pain, and one day he said to Mr. Medwin:--
"When Galignani thought of publishing a fresh edition of my works he wrote to Moore to ask him to give him some anecdotes respecting me: and we thought of composing a narrative filled with the most impossible and incredible adventures, to amuse the Parisians. But I reflected that there were already too many ready-made stories about me, to puzzle my brain to invent new ones."