A Day with Lord Byron. Byron May Clarissa Gillington

Чтение книги онлайн.

      A Day with Lord Byron

      A DAY WITH BYRON

      One February afternoon in the year 1822, about two o'clock, – for this is the hour at which his day begins, – "the most notorious personality of his century" arouses himself, in the Palazzo Lanfranchi at Pisa. George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron, languidly arises and dresses, with the assistance of his devoted valet Fletcher. Invariably he awakes in very low spirits, "in actual despair and despondency," he has termed it: this is in part constitutional, and partly, no doubt, a reaction after the feverish brain-work of the previous night. It is, at any rate, in unutterable melancholy and ennui that he surveys in the mirror that slight and graceful form, which had been idolised by London drawing-rooms, and that pale, scornful, beautiful face, "like a spirit, good or evil," which the enthusiastic Walter Scott has termed a thing to dream of. He notes the grey streaks already visible among his dark brown locks, and mutters his own lines miserably to himself, —

      An innumerable motley crowd of reminiscences – most of them bitter, sorrowful, or contemptuous, throng across his mind, shaping themselves into poignant verse:

      A meagre breakfast, – of claret and soda with a few mouthfuls of some Italian dish, – somewhat restores his natural vivacity: and he listens with cynical amusement to Fletcher's blood-curdling stories of the phantoms who have made night hideous. For the famous old feudal Palazzo, with its dungeons and secret chambers, has been immemorially infested with ghosts, and harassed by inexplicable noises. Fletcher has already begged leave to change his room, and then refused to occupy his new room, because, as his master reports, "there are more ghosts there than in the other!.. There is one place where people were evidently walled up… I am bothered about these spectres, as they say the last occupants were too." However, he is laughing as he descends the magnificent staircase, – the reputed work of Michael Angelo, – laughing until the shrill querulous cries of peevish children make him stop and frown. He has allowed the Leigh Hunts, with their large and fractious family, to occupy for the present the ground-floor of the Palazzo; and children are his pet abhorrence. "I abominate the sight of them so much," he has already told Moore, "that I have always had the greatest respect for the character of Herod!" No child figures in any of his poems: his own paternal feeling towards "Ada, sole daughter of my house and home," is merely a fluctuating sentiment.

      He shrugs his shoulders and enters his great salon, again moody and with a downcast air: and throws himself upon a couch in gloomy reverie. Snatches of poetry wander through his thoughts – poetry intrinsically autobiographical, for "the inequalities of his style are those of his career," and his imaginary heroes are endless reproductions of himself, "the wandering outlaw of his own dark mind." He has drawn his own picture more effectively in Lara than any strange hand could do.

      His men, in short, as has been observed, are "made after his own image, and his women after his own heart." Yet the inveterate family likeness of these heroes is not shared by the heroines of his romantic stanzas: for Byron has an eclectic taste in beauty. One can hardly imagine a wider dissimilarity than between the Bride of Abydos, the gentle Zuleika, with her

      and "Circassia's daughter," the stately Leila of The Giaour, whose black and flowing hair "swept the marble where her feet gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet." Or, if the reader seek a further choice, there is Medora, beloved of the Corsair, – Medora of the deep blue eye and long fair hair; or the nameless Eastern maiden of the Hebrew Melodies:

      Yet all these heroines are alike in one respect – their potentiality of passionate emotion: since Byron's "passions and his powers," according to his intense admirer Shelley, "are incomparably greater than those of other men: " and he has used the last almost recklessly in portrayal of the first.

      As the poet reclines in sombre meditation, his reverie is broken by the not unwelcome entrance of his friends – who may be better termed his intimate acquaintances. For, to that brooding, introspective spirit, – constitutionally shy, and morbidly conscious of the fact, – "friendship is a propensity," he has declared, "to which my genius is very limited. I do not know the male human being, except Lord Clare, the friend of my infancy, for whom СКАЧАТЬ