LET LORD BYRON (1788-1824)
PART
3
TO
JOHN CAM HOBOUSE
My dear Hobhouse, – Lord Sligo’s unmanageable brig being remanded to Malta, with a large quantity of vases, amounting in value (according to the depreciation of Fauriel) to one hundred and fifty piastres, I cannot resist the temptation of assailing you in this third letter, which I trust will find you better than your deserts, and no worse than my wishes can make you. I have girated the Morea, and was presented with a very fine horse (a stallion), and honoured with a number of squeezes and speeches by Velly Pacha, besides a most pressing invitation to meet him at Larissa in his way to the wars. But of these things I have written already. I returned to Athens by Argos, where I found Lord Sligo with a painter, who has got a fever with sketching at midday, and a dragoman who has actually lied himself into a lockjaw. I grieve to say the Marchese has done a number of young things, because I believe him to be a clever, and I am sure he is a good man. I am most auspiciously settled in the Convent, which is more commodious than any tenement I have yet occupied, with room for my suite; and it is by no means solitary, seeing there is not only “il Padre Abbate” but his “Schuola”, consisting of six “Ragazzi”, all my most particular allies. These gentlemen being almost (saving Fauriel and Lusieri) my only associates, it is but proper their character, religion, and morals, should be described. Of this goodly company three are Catholics, and three are Greeks, which schismatics I have already set a boxing to the great amusement of the Father, who rejoices to see the Catholics conquer. Their names are Barthelmi, Giuseppè, Nicolo, Yani, ad two anonymous, at least in my memory. Of these, Berthelemi is a “simplice Fanciullo”, according to the account of the Father, whose favourite is Giuseppè, who sleeps in the lantern of Demosthenes. We have nothing but riot from noon to night.
The first time I mingled with these sylphs, after about two minutes’ reconnoitring , the amiable Signor Barthelemi, without any previous notice, seated himself by me, and after observing by way of compliment that my “Signoria” was the “più bello” of his English acquaintance, saluted me on the left cheek, for which freedom being reproved by Giuseppè, who very properly informed him that I was “μεγάλος”; he told him I was his “φίλος”, and “by his beard” he would do so again, adding, in reply to the question “Διά τί ασπάσετε?” “you see he laughs”, as in good truth I did heartily. But my friend, as you may easily imagine, is Nicolo, , who, by-the-by, is my Italian master, and we are already very philosophical. I am his “Padrone” and his “amico”, and the Lord knows what besides. It is about two hours since, that, after informing me he was most desirous to follow him (that is me) over the world, he concluded by telling me it was proper for us not only to live, but “morire insieme”. The latter I hope to avoid – as much for the former as he pleases. I am awakened in the morning by those imps shouting “Venite abasso”, and the friar gravely observes it is “bisogno bastonare” everybody before the studies an possibly commence. Besides these lads, my suite, – to which I have added a Tartar and a youth to look after my two new saddle horses, – my suite, I say, are very obstreperous, and drink skinfuls of Zean wine at eight paras the olne daily. Then we have several Albanian women washing in the “giardino”, whose hours of relaxation are spent in running pins into Fletcher’s backside. “Damnata di mi, if I have seen such a spectaculo in my way from Viterbo”. In short, what with the women, and the boys, and the suite, we are very disorderly. But I am vastly happy and childish, and shall have a world of anecdotes for you and the “citoyen”.
Intrigue flourishes: the old woman, Theresa’s mother, was mad enough to imagine I was going to marry the girl; but I have better amusement. Andreas is fooling with Dudu, as usual, and Mariana has made a conquest of Dervise Tahiri; Vircillie, Fletcher and Sullee, my new Tartar, have each a mistress – “Vive l’Amour”.
I am learning Italian, and this day translated an ode of Horace, “Exegi monumentum” into that language. I chatter with everybody, good or bad, and tradute prayers out of mass ritual; by my lessons, though very long, are sadly interrupted by scamperings, and eating fruit, and peltings and playings; and I am in fact at school again, and make as little improvement now as I did then, my time being wasted in the same way.
However, it is too good to last; I am going to make a second tour of
Attica with Lusieri , who is a new ally of mine and Nicolo goes with me at his
own most pressing solicitation, “per mare per terras”. “Forse” you may see us
in Inghilterra, but “non so, come, etc.” For the present, good-even, Buona sera
a vos Signoria. Bacio le mani: –
August 24th, 1810.
I am about to take my daily ride to Piræus, where I swim for an hour despite of the heat; here hath been an Englishman, ycleped Watson, who died and is buried in the Tempio of Theseus. I knew him not, but I am told that the surgeon of Lord Sligo’s brig slew him with an improper potion, and a cold bath.
Lord Sligo’s crew are sadly addicted to liquor. He is in some apprehension of a scrape with the Navy concerning certain mariners of the King’s ships.
He himself is now at Argos with his hospital, but intends to winter in Athens. I think he will be sick of it, poor soul, he has all the indecision of your humble servant, without the relish for ridiculous which makes my life supportable.
I wish you were here to partake of a number of waggeries, which you can hardly find in the gun-room or in Grub Street, but then you are so very crabbed and disagreeable, that when the laugh is over I rejoice in your absence. After all I do love thee, Hobby, thou hast so many good qualities, and so many bad ones, it is impossible to live with or without thee.
Nine in the evening.
I have, as usual, swum across the Piræus, the Signor Nicolo also laved, but he makes as bad a hand in the water as l’Abbé Hyacinth at Falmouth; it is a curious thing that the Turks when they bathe wear their lower garments, as your humble servant always doth, but the Greeks not; however, questo Giovane e vergognò. [Sic!]
Lord Sligo’s surgeon has assisted very materially the malignant fever now fashionable here; another man dead to-day, two men a week, like fighting Bob Acres in the country. Fauriel says he is like the surgeon the Venetians fitted out against the Turks, with whom they were then at war.
I have been employed the greater part of today in conjugating the verb “ασπαζω” [sic!] (which word being Ellenic [sic!] as well as Romaic may find a place) in the Citoyen’s Lexicon. I assure you my progress is rapid, but like Caesar “nil actum reputans dum quid superesset agendum”, I must arrive at the (……..) , and then I will write to –––. I hope to escape the fever, at least till I finish this affair, and then it is welcome to cry. I don’t think without its friend the drunken Pothecary it has any chance. Take a quotation: – “Et Lycam nigris oculis, nigroque crine decorum”.
Yours and the Sieur’s ever, B.
TO
JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE
Patras,
October 2nd, 1810
Dear Yani, – By this second date you will
perceive that I have been again ill. Indeed I have had this fever very
violently, and five days bed-riding with Emetics, glisters, Bark, and all the
host of Physic shewed how vain were my former hopes of complete recovery. But
being well toasted and watered etc., I shall endeavour to conclude this letter of two beginnings, which I must
do quickly and attend poor Nicolo who has waited on me day and night till he is worse than I was and is now
undergoing the same process for his recovery. I believe you recollect him. He
is the brother of Lusieri’s spouse, and
has been with me nearly two months, at his particular request. He is now my
sole dragoman (I have commenced Italian), for the moment I received yours
Andreas was dismissed at the instance of Dominus Magelli. I have made a
tolerable tour of the Morea, and visited Vely Pasha, who gave me a very pretty
horse.
The other day I went to Olympia. Argos,
Napoli, and Mantinea I saw in my route to and from Tripolitza. I have seen a
good deal of Lord Sligo; by the bye, there is a silly report all over the
Morea, that he and I quarrelled, fought, and were wounded at Argos, there is
not a word of truth in it from beginning to end.
If I kept any journal your request would
be immediately complied with, but I have none.
Vely is gone to the Danube. I have been
here on business with Strané, but the moment Nicolo and myself are enough
recovered to set out, I shall proceed again to Athens. I lodge in the convent.
Perhaps I am in possession of anecdotes
that would amuse you and the Citoyen, but I must defer the detail till we meet,
I have written to you three times since I left you in Zea, and direct my
letters to Ridgways, where I presume you will be found on Sundays. You are now
in England. What you tell me of the Miscellany grieves me (in spite of
Rochefoucault); I commend your design of not letting the public off so easily;
come out as a tourist, prose must go down.
TO
JOHN CAM HOBHOUSE
Patras,
Morea, October 4th, 1810
My dear Hobhouse, – I wrote to you two
days ago, but the weather and my friend Strané’s conversation being much the same, and my ally Nicolo in bed with
a fever, I think I may as well talk to you, the rather, as you can’t answer me;
and excite my wrath with impertinent observations, at least for three months to
come. I will try not to say the same things I have set down in my other letter
of the 2nd, but I can’t promise, as my poor head is still giddy with
my late fever. I saw the Lady Hesther
Stranhope at Athens , and do not admire “that dangerous thing a female
wit”. She told me (take her own words) that she had given you a good set-down
at Malta, in some disputation with the Navy; from this, of course, I readily
inferred the contrary, or in the words of an acquaintance of ours, that
“you had the best of it”. She evinced a similar disposition to argufy
with me, which I avoided by either laughing or yielding. I despise the sex too
much to squabble with them, and I rather wonder you should allow a woman to
draw you into a contest, in which, however, I am sure you had the advantage,
she abuses you so bitterly. I have seen too little of the Lady to form my
decisive opinion, but I have discovered nothing different from other
she-things, except a great disregard of received notions in her conversation as
well as conduct. I don’t know whether this will recommend her to our sex, but I
am sure it won’t to her own. She is going to Constantinople. Ali Pacha is in a
scrape. Ibrahim Pacha and the Pacha of Scutari have come down upon him with
20,000 Gegdes and Albanians, retaken Berat, and threaten Tepaleni. Adam Bey is
dead, Vely Pacha was on his way to the Danube, but has gone off suddenly to
Yanina, and all Albania is in an uproar. The mountains we crossed last year are
the scene of warfare, and there is nothing but carnage and cutting of throats.
In my other letter I mentioned that Vely had given me a fine horse. On my last
visit he received me with great pomp, standing, conducted me to the door with
his arm around my waist, and a variety of civilities, invited me to meet him at
Larissa and see his army, which I should have accepted, had not this rupture
with Ibrahim taken place. Sultan Mahmout is in his phrenzy because Vely has not
joined the army. We have a report here, that the Russians have beaten the Turks
and taken Muchtar Pacha prisoner, but it is a Greek Bazaar rumour and not to be
believed. I have now treated you with a dish of Turkish politics. You have by
this time gotten into England, and your ears and mouth are full of “Reform
Burdett, Gale Jones, minority, last night’s division, dissolution of Parliament,
battle in Portugal”, and all the cream of forty newspapers. jkjk
In my t’other letter, to which I am
perpetually obliged to refer, I have offered some moving topics on the head of
your Miscellany, the neglect of which I attribute to the half guinea annexed
as the indispensable equivalent for the said volume. Now I do hope,
notwithstanding that exorbitant demand, that on your return you will find it
selling, or, what is better, sold, in consequence of which you will be able to
face the public with your new volume, if that intention still subsists. My
journal, did I keep one, should be yours. As it is I can only offer my sincere
wishes for your success, if you will believe it possible for a brother
scribbler to be sincere on such an occasion. Will you execute a commission for
me? Lord Sligo tells me it was the intention of Miller in Albemarle Street to
send by him a letter to me, which he started to be of consequence. Now I have
no concern with Mr. M. except a bill which I hope is paid before this time; will
you visit the said M. and if it be a pecuniary matter, refer him to Hanson, and
if not, tell me what he means, or forward his letter. I have just received an
epistle from Galt, with a Candist poem, which it seems I am to forward to you.
This I would willingly do, but it is too large for a letter, and too small for
a parcel, and besides appears to be damned nonsense, from all which
considerations I will deliver it in person. It is entitled the “Fair
Shepherdess”, or rather “Herdswoman”; if you don’t like the translation take
the original title ‘ἡ
ϐοσκοπουλα’.
Galt also writes something not very intelligible about a “Spartan State paper”
which by his account is everything but Laconic. Now the said Sparta having some
years ceased to be a state, what the devil does he mean by a paper? he also
adds mysteriously that the affair not being concluded, he cannot at
present apply for it. Now, Hobhouse, are you mad, or is he? Are these documents
for Longman and Co.? Spartan state paper! and Cretan rhymes! Indeed these
circumstances superadded to his house at Nycene (whither I am invited) And his
Levant wines, make me suspect his sanity.
Athens is at present infested with English
people, but they are moving, Dio benedetto! I am returning to pass a
month or two; I think the spring will see me in England, but do not let this
transpire, nor cease to urge the most dilatory of mortals, Hanson. I have some
idea of purchasing the Island of Ithaca; I suppose you will add me to the
Levant lunatics. I shall be glad to hear from your Signoria of your welfare,
politcs, and literature. Tell M. that I have obtained above two hundred
[impossible to read] and am almost tired of them; for the history of these he
must wait my return, as after many attempts I have given up the idea of
conveying information on paper. You know the monastery of Mendele; it was there
I made myself master of the first. Your last letter closes pathetically with a
postscript about a nosegay; I advise you to introduce that into your next
sentimental novel. I am sure I did not suspect you of any fine feelings, and I
believe you were laughing, but you are welcome. Vale; “I can no more”,
like Lord Grizzle.
Yours, Μπαίρων