My Recollections of Lord Byron
months, including his journeys to Rome and to Florence. Let moralists
say whether a man steeped in sensual pleasures could have done all that.
"The truth is," says Moore, "that, so far from the strength of his
intellect being impaired or dissipated by these irregularities, it never
was perhaps at any period of his life more than at Venice in full
possession of all its energies."[55]
All the concessions Moore was obliged to make, from a sort of weakness,
not to compromise his position, to certain extreme opinions in politics
or religion, cloaking in reality personal hatred; are they not all
destroyed by this single avowal?
Shelley, who came to Venice to see Lord Byron, said that all he
observed of Lord Byron's state during his visit gave him a much higher
idea of his intellectual grandeur than what he had noticed before. Then
it was, and under this impression, that Shelley sketched almost the
whole poem of "Julian and Maddalo." "It is in this latter character,"
says Moore, "that he has so picturesquely personated his noble friend;
his allusions to the 'Swan of Albion,' in the verses written on the
Engancennes hills, are also the result of this fit of enthusiastic
admiration." At Venice Lord Byron saw few English; but those he did see,
and who have spoken of him, have expressed themselves in the same way as
Shelley; which caused Galt to say, that even at Venice, with regard to
his pleasures, his conduct had been that of most young men! but that the
whole difference must have consisted in the extravagant delight he took
in exaggerating, through his conversation, not what was conducive to
honor, but, on the contrary, what was likely to do him harm. The whole
difference, however, does not lie here, but rather in the indiscretion
shown by some friends.[56] Among the best testimonies borne to his way
of living at Venice we must not forget that of Hoppner, who bore so high
a character, and who was the constant companion of his daily afternoon
walks; nor that of the excellent Father Pascal, who shared his morning
studies at the Armenian convent.[57]
But in this united homage to truth I can not pass over in silence nor
refrain from quoting the words of a very great mind, who, under the veil
of fiction, has written almost a biography of Lord Byron, and who too
independent, _though a Tory_, to _wish_ to conceal his thought, has
declared in the preface to his charming work of "Venetia" that Lord
Byron was really his hero.
This writer, after speaking of all the silly calumnies with which Lord
Byron was overwhelmed at one time, says of the two more especially
calculated to stir up opinion against him, those which accused him of
_libertinism_ and _atheism_:--
"A calm inquirer might, perhaps, have suspected that abandoned
profligacy is not very compatible with severe study, and that an author
is seldom loose in his life, even if he be licentious in his writings.
A calm inquirer might, perhaps, have been of opinion that a solitary
sage may be the antagonist of a priesthood without absolutely denying
the existence of a God; but there never are calm inquirers. The world,
on every subject, however unequally, is divided into parties; and even
in the case of Herbert (Lord Byron) and his writings, those who admired
his genius and the generosity of his soul were not content with
advocating, principally out of pique to his adversaries, his extreme
opinions on every subject--moral, political, and religious. Besides, it
must be confessed, there was another circumstance almost as fatal to
Herbert's character in England as his loose and heretical opinions. The
travelling English, during their visits to Geneva, found out that their
countryman solaced or enlivened his solitude by unhallowed ties. It is a
habit to which very young men, who are separated from or deserted by
their wives, occasionally have recourse. Wrong, no doubt, as most things
are, but, it is to be hoped, venial; at least in the case of any man who
is not also an atheist. This unfortunate mistress of Herbert was
magnified into a _seraglio_; extraordinary tales of the voluptuous life
of one who generally _at his studies outwatched the stars_, were rife in
English society; and
'Hoary marquises and stripling dukes,'
who were either _protecting opera-dancers_, or, still worse, _making
love to their neighbors' wives_, either looked grave when the name of
Herbert (Lord Byron) was mentioned in female society, or affectedly
confused, as if they could a tale unfold, if they were not convinced,
that the sense of propriety among all present was infinitely superior to
their sense of curiosity."
In addition to all the proofs given by the varied uses Lord Byron made
of his intellect we must not omit those furnished by the state of his
heart. If, too readily yielding at Venice to momentary and fleeting
attractions, Lord Byron had been led to squander the powers of youth, to
wish to extinguish his senses in order to open out a more vast horizon
to his intelligence; if, thus mistaking the means, he had, nevertheless,
weakened, enervated, degraded himself, would not his heart have been the
first victim sacrificed on the altar of light pleasures?
But, on the contrary, this heart which he had never succeeded in lulling
into more than a slumber, when the hour of awakening came, held dominion
by its own natural energy over the proud aspirations of his
intelligence, and found both his youth and faculty of loving unweakened,
and that he had a love capable of every sacrifice, a love as fresh as in
his very spring-tide.
Are such metamorphoses possible to withered souls? Moralists have never
met with a like phenomenon. On the contrary, they certify that in hearts
withered by the enjoyments of sense all generous feelings, all noble
aspirations become extinct.
If Lord Byron's anti-sensuality were not sufficiently proved by his
actions, words, writings, and by the undeniable testimony of those who
knew him, it might still be abundantly proved by his habits of life, and
all his tastes; to begin with his sobriety, which really was wonderful.
So much so, that if the proverb, _Tell me what you eat, and I will tell
you what you are_, be true, and founded on psychological observation,
one must admit that Lord Byron was almost an immaterial being.
His fine health, his strong and vigorous constitution, lead to the
presumption that, at least in childhood and during his boyish days, his
rule of life could not have differed from that of the class to which he
belonged. Nevertheless, his sobriety was remarkable even in early youth;
at eighteen he went with a friend, Mr. Pigott, to Tunbridge Wells, and
this gentleman says, "We retired to our own rooms directly after dinner,
for Byron did not care for drinking any more than myself."
But this natural sobriety became soon after the sobriety of an
anchorite, which lasted more or less all his life, and was a perfect
phenomenon. Not that he was insensible to the pleasures of good living,
and still less did he act from any vanity (as has been said by some
incapable of sacrificing the bodily appetites to the soul); his conduct
proceeded from the desire and resolution of making _matter_ subservient
to the _spirit_.
His rule of life was already in full force when he left England for the
first time. Mr. Galt, whom chance associated with Lord Byron on board
the same vessel bound from Gibraltar to Malta, affirms that Lord Byron,
during the whole voyage, seldom tasted wine; and that, when he did
occasionally take some, it was never more than half a glass mixed with
water. He ate but little; and never any meat; only bread and vegetables.
He made me think of the ghoul taking rice with a needle."
On board "La Salsette," returning from Constantinople, he himself wrote
to his friend and preceptor Drury, that the gnats which devoured the
_delicate body_ of Hobhouse had not much effect on him, because he lived
in a _more sober manner_.
As to his mode of living during his two years' absence from England we
can say nothing, except that he lived in climates where sobriety is the
rule, and that his letters expressed profound disgust at the complaints,
exacting tone, and effeminate tastes of his servants, and his own
preference for a monastic mode of life, and very probably also for
monastic diet. The testimony to his extraordinary sobriety becomes
unanimous as soon as he returns home.
Dallas, who saw him immediately on his landing in 1811, writes:--
"Lord Byron has adopted a mode of diet that any one else would have
called dying of hunger, and to which several persons even attributed his
lowness of spirits. He lived simply on small sea-biscuits, very thin;
only eating two of these, and often but one, a day, with one cup of
_green tea_, which he generally drank at one in the afternoon. He
assured me that was all the nourishment he took during the twenty-four
hours, and that, so far from this regime affecting his spirits, it made
him feel lighter and more lively; and, in short, gave him _greater
command over himself in all respects. This great abstinence is almost
incredible.... He thought great eaters were generally prone to anger,
and stupid._"[58]
It was about this time that he made the personal acquaintance of Moore
at a dinner given by Rogers for the purpose of bringing them together
and of reconciling them.
"As none of us," says Moore, "knew about his singular regime, our host
was not a little embarrassed on discovering, that there was nothing on
the table which his noble guest could eat or drink. Lord Byron did not
touch meat, fish, or wine; and as to the biscuits and soda-water he
asked for, there were, unfortunately, none in the house. He declared he
was equally pleased with potatoes and vinegar, and on this meagre
pittance he succeeded in making an agreeable dinner."[59]
About the same time, being questioned by one of his friends, who liked
good living, as to what sort of table they had at the Alfred Club, to
which he belonged, "It is not worth much," answered Lord Byron. "I speak
from hearsay; for what does cookery signify to a vegetable-eater? But
there are books and quiet; so, for what I care, they may serve up their
dishes as they like."
"Frequently," says Moore again, "during the first part of our
acquaintance we dined together alone, either at St. Alban's, or at his
old asylum, Stevens's. Although occasionally he consented to take a
little Bordeaux, he _always held to his system of abstaining from meat_.
He seemed truly persuaded that animal food must have some particular
influence on character. And I remember one day being seated opposite to
him, engaged in eating a beefsteak with good appetite, that, after
having looked at me attentively for several seconds, he said, gravely,
'Moore, does not this eating beefsteaks make you ferocious?'
"Among the numerous hours we passed together this spring, I remember
particularly his extreme gayety one evening on returning from a soiree,
when, after having accompanied Rogers home, Lord Byron--who, according
to his frequent custom, had not dined the last two days--feeling his
appetite no longer governable, asked for something to eat. Our repast,
at his choice, consisted only of bread and cheese; but I have rarely
made a gayer meal in my life."
In 1814 he relaxed his diet a little, so far as to eat fish now and
then; but he considered this an excessive indulgence. "I have made a
regular dinner for the first time since Sunday," he writes in his
journal. "Every other day tea and six dry biscuits. This dinner makes
me heavy, stupid, gives me horrible dreams (nevertheless, it only
consisted of a pint of Bucellas and fish; I do not touch meat, and take
but little vegetable). I wish I were in the country for exercise,