Your confidential letter is safe, and all the others. This one has cut me to the heart because I have made you uneasy. Still I think all these apprehensions—very groundless. Who can care for such a wretch as Ce ——,4

1 See Chap. II., p. 46, and Chap. III., p. 59. 2 Father of the present head of the firm. 3 See Chap. V., p. III. 4 Lady Caroline Lamb.

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or believe such a seventy times convicted liar? and in the next place, whatever she may suppose or assert—I never “committed” any one to her but myself. And as to her fancies—she fancies any thing—and every body—Lady M1 &c. &c. Really this is starting at shadows. You distress me with—no—it is not you. But I have heard that Lady B—— is ill, & I am so sorry—but it’s of no use—do not mention her again—but I shall not forget her kindness to you.

I am going to Chamouni (to leave my card with Mont Blanc) and I mean to buy some pretty granite & spar playthings for children (which abound there) for my daughter—and my nieces—You will forward what I select to little Da—& divide the rest among your own. I shall send them by Scrope; this goes by another person. I shall write more and longer soon.

By two opportunities of private conveyance I have sent answers to your letter delivered by Mr. H.3 S——4 is on his return to England and may probably

1 Lady Melbourne. 2 For facsimile of signature, see p. 286. 3 Hobhouse. 4 Scrope Davies.

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arrive before this. He is charged with a few packets of seals—necklaces—balls &c. &—I know not what—formed of Chrystals, Agates, and other stones, all of them from Mont Blanc bought and brought by me on and from the spot—expressly for you to divide among yourself and the children, including also your niece Ada, for whom I selected a ball (of Granite—a soft substance by the way—but the only one there) wherewithall to roll and play when she is old enough, and mischievous enough, & moreover a Chrystal necklace; and anything else you may like to add for her—the love!

The rest are for you and the nursery, but particularly Georgiana, who has sent me a very nice letter. I hope Scrope will carry them all safely, as he promised. There are seals and all kinds of fooleries, pray like them, for they come from a very curious place (nothing like it hardly in all I ever saw) to say nothing of the giver.

And so—Lady B. has been “kind to you” you tell me—“very kind”—umph—it is as well she should be kind to some of us, and I am glad she has the heart & the discernment to be still your friend; you was ever so to her. I heard the other day that she was very unwell. I was shocked enough——& sorry enough, God knows, but never mind; H. tells me however that she is not ill; that she had been indisposed, but is better and well to do—This is a relief. As for me I am in good health, & fair, though very unequal spirits; but for all that—she—or rather the Separation—has broken my heart. I feel as if an Elephant had trodden on it. I am convinced I shall never get over it—but I try. I had enough before I knew her and more than enough, but time & agitation had done something for me; but this last wreck has affected me very differently. If it were acutely it would not signify; but it is not that—I breathe lead. While the storm lasted and you were all pitying and comforting me with condemnation in Piccadilly, it was bad enough & violent enough, but it’s

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worse now; I have neither strength nor spirits nor inclination to carry me through anything which will clear my brain or lighten my heart. I mean to cross the Alps at the end of this month, & go—God knows where—by Dalmatia up to the Arnauts again, if nothing better can be done; I have still a world before me—this—or the next. H—— has told me all the strange stories in circulation of me & mine—not true.1 I have been in some danger on the lake (near Meillerie) but nothing to speak of; and as to all these “mistresses”—Lord help me—I have had but one. Now don’t scold—but what could I do? A foolish girl, in spite of all I could say or do, would come after me, or rather went before for I found her here, and I have had all the plague possible to persuade her to go back again, but at last she went. Now dearest, I do most truly tell thee that I could not help this, that I did all I could to prevent it, and have at last put an end to it. I was not in love nor have any love left for any, but I could not exactly play the Stoic with a woman who had scrambled eight hundred miles to unphilosophize me, besides I had been regaled of late with so many “two courses and a desert” (Alas!) of aversion, that I was fain to take a little love (if pressed particularly) by way of novelty. And now you know all that I know of that matter, & it’s over. Pray write, I have heard nothing since your last, at least a month or five weeks ago. I go out very little, except into the air, and on journeys, and on the water, and to Coppet, where Me de Staël has been particularly kind and friendly towards me, and (I hear) fought battles without number in my very indifferent cause. It has (they say) made quite as much noise on this as the other side of “La Manche”—Heaven knows why, but I seem destined to set people by the ears.

Your having seen my daughter is to me a great satisfaction; it is as if I had seen her myself. Next to you—dearest—she is nearly all I have to look forward to with hope or pleasure in this world. Perhaps she also may disappoint & distress me, but I will not think so; in any case she will at least love me—or my memory.

By Mr Davies I sent you for yourself—little Da—& my nieces, a variety of Chrystal & other trinkets from Mont Blanc & Chamouni, which I got upon the spot for you all. I hope they will arrive safely.

If I understand you rightly, you seem to have been apprehensive—or menaced (like every one else) by that infamous Bedlamite [erased]1—If she stirs against you, neither her folly nor her falsehood should or shall protect her. Such a monster as that has no sex, and should live no longer.

But till such an event should occur, you may rely that I shall remain as quiet as the most unbounded Contempt of her, and my affection for you & regard for your feelings can make me. I should never think of her nor her infamies, but that they seem (I know not why) to make you uneasy. What ’tis she may tell or what she may

1 Caroline Lamb.

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know or pretend to know—is to me indifferent. You know I suppose that Lady Bn secretly opened my letter trunks before she left Town, and that she has also been (during or since the separation) in correspondence with that self-avowed libeller & strumpet [erased]1 wife. This you may depend upon though I did not know it till recently.

There is perhaps a chance of your seeing me in Spring, as I said before I left England; but it is useless to form plans, and most of all for me to do so. I may say (as Whitbread said to me of his own a short time before his decease), that “none of mine ever succeeded.”

We purpose making a short tour to the Berne Alps next week, and then to return here and cross the Simplon to Milan. Your letters had better be always directed to Geneva Poste Restante and my banker (Mr. Hentsch, a very attentive and good man), will take care to forward them, wherever I may be.

I have answered Georgiana’s letter & am very glad she likes her little cousin. How came Ada’s hair fair?—she will be like her mother and torture me. However if she is kind to you—and when the time comes—if she will continue so, it is enough.

I do not write to you in good spirits, and I cannot pretend to be so, but I have no near nor immediate cause of being thus, but as it is; I only request you will say nothing of this to Hobhouse by letter or message, as I wish to wear as quiet an appearance with him as possible;—besides I am in good health & well without.

The Jerseys are here; I am to see them soon. Made de Staël still very kind & hospitable, but Rocca (to whom she is privately married) is not well, with some old wounds badly cured.

If I see anything very striking in the Mountains I will tell thee. To Scrope I leave the details of Chamouni

1 Wm. Lamb’s.

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& the Glaciers & the sources of the Aveiron. This country is altogether the Paradise of Wilderness—I wish you were in it with me—& every one else out of it—Love me, A., ever thine—

“And then about you my dearest A—— Do you know I’m sorry to suspect Fletcher of that communication—for no one else could”. . .

“Oct. 2. . . . All that is said of CL appears to me nothing but the effect of apprehension—and the design to blacken me by association with her (which will however make me more cautious) is another effect of fear in order to invalidate any future disclosure which he may suspect or know it is in my power to make so as to convince others—the temper of the whole letter is decidedly that of a conscience enraged by anticipating judgment here as well as hereafter—and which by way of precaution against the former would persecute un-

1 Underlined twice.

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relentingly all whom he has made to know him—From this view his adoption (if not invention) of my being a Picklock is easily explained—for such a suspicion of my means of information would entirely discredit my testimony—But there also seems another disposition in parts of the letter—to alarm and annoy you notwithstanding the professed feelings of consideration and affection—This is evident in the hint about Whitbread—(the old threat of Suicide)—and I think also in this very suggestion of my having opened his papers—letters of yours probably”. . .

“To return once more to CL—I never wrote a single line to her from the time of my separation till that note of which you know merely declining her visit—so that the story of a correspondence is utterly false.” . . .

Continue you to direct as usual to Geneva. I have lately written to you several letters (3 or 4 by post and two by hand) and I have received all yours very safely. I rejoice to have heard that you are well. You have been in London too lately, & H. tells me that at your levée he generally found Ld F. Bentinck—pray why is that fool so often a visitor? is he in love with you? I have recently broken through my resolution of not speaking to you of Lady B— but do not on that account name her to me. It is a relief—a partial relief to me to talk of her sometimes to you—but it would be none to hear of her. Of her you are to judge for yourself,

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but do not altogether forget that she has destroyed your brother. Whatever my faults might or may have been—She—was not the person marked out by providence to be their avenger. One day or another her conduct will recoil on her own head; not through me, for my feelings towards her are not those of Vengeance, but—mark—if she does not end miserably tot ou tard. She may think—talk—or act as she will, and by any process of cold reasoning and a jargon of “duty & acting for the best” &c., &c., impose upon her own feelings & those of others for a time—but woe unto her—the wretchedness she has brought upon the man to whom she has been everything evil [except in one respect effaced] will flow back into its fountain. I may thank the strength of my constitution that has enabled me to bear all this, but those who bear the longest and the most do not suffer the least. I do not think a human being could endure more mental torture than that woman has directly & indirectly inflicted upon me—within the present year.

Scrope has by this time arrived with my little presents for you and yours & Ada. I still hope to be able to see you next Spring, perhaps you & one or two of the children could be spared some time next year for a little tour here or in France with me of a month or two. I think I could make it pleasing to you, & it should be no expense to L. or to yourself. Pray think of this hint. You have no idea how very beautiful great part of this country is—and women and children traverse it with ease and expedition. I would return from any distance at any time to see you, and come to England for you; and when you consider the chances against our—but I won’t relapse into the dismals and anticipate long absences——

The great obstacle would be that you are so admirably

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yoked—and necessary as a housekeeper—and a letter writer—& a place-hunter to that very helpless gentleman your Cousin, that I suppose the usual self-love of an elderly person would interfere between you & any scheme of recreation or relaxation, for however short a period.

Two days ago I sent you in three letter-covers a journal1 of a mountain-excursion lately made by me & Mr H.2 in the Bernese Alps. I kept it on purpose for you thinking it might amuse you. Since my return here I have heard by an indirect Channel that Lady B. is better, or well. It is also said that she has some intention of passing the winter on the Continent. Upon this subject I want a word or two, and as you are—I understand—on terms of acquaintance with her again you will be the properest channel of communication from me to her. It regards my child. It is far from my intention now or at any future period (without misconduct on her part which I should be grieved to anticipate),

1 “Letters and Journals,” Vol. III., p. 349. 2 Hobhouse.

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to attempt to withdraw my child from its mother. I think it would be harsh; & Though it is a very deep privation to me to be withdrawn from the contemplation and company of my little girl, still I would not purchase even this so very dearly; but I must strongly protest against my daughter’s leaving England, to be taken over the Continent at so early a time of life & subjected to many unavoidable risks of health & comfort; more especially in so unsettled a state as we know the greater part of Europe to be in at this moment. I do not choose that my girl should be educated like Lord Yarmouth’s son (or run the chance of it which a war would produce), and I make it my personal & particular request to Lady Byron that—in the event of her quitting England—the child should be left in the care of proper persons. I have no objection to its remaining with Lady Noel & Sir Ralph, (who would naturally be fond of it), but my distress of mind would be very much augmented if my daughter quitted England without my consent or approbation. I beg that you will lose no time in making this known to Lady B. and I hope you will say something to enforce my request, I have no wish to trouble her more than can be helped. My whole hope—and prospect of a quiet evening (if I reach it), are wrapt up in that little creature—Ada—and you must forgive my anxiety in all which regards her even to minuteness. My journal will have told you all my recent wanderings. I am very well though I had a little accident yesterday. Being in my boat in the evening the pole of the mainsail slipped in veering round, & struck me on a nerve of one of my legs so violently as to make me faint away. Mr He & cold water brought me to myself, but there was no damage done—no bone hurt—and I have now no pain whatever. Some nerve or tendon was jarred—for a moment & that was all. To-day I dine at Coppet; the Jerseys are I believe to be there. Believe me ever & truly my own dearest Sis. most affectionately and entirely yours

I have been at Churches, Theatres, libraries, and picture galleries. The Cathedral is noble, the theatre grand, the library excellent, and the galleries I know nothing about—except as far as liking one picture out of a thousand. What has delighted me most is a manuscript collection (preserved in the Ambrosian library), of original love-letters and verses of Lucretia de Borgia & Cardinal Bembo; and a lock of her hair—so long—and fair & beautiful—and the letters so pretty & so loving that it makes one wretched not to have been born sooner to have at least seen her. And pray what do you think is one of her signatures?—why this ✣ a Cross—which she says “is to stand for her name &c.” Is not this amusing? I suppose you know that she was a famous beauty, & famous for the use she made of it; & that she was the love of this same Cardinal Bembo (besides a story about her papa Pope Alexander & her brother Caesar Borgia—which some people don’t believe—& others do), and that after all she ended with being Duchess of Ferrara, and an excellent mother & wife also; so good as to be quite an example. All this may or may not be, but the hair & the letters are so beautiful that I have done nothing but pore over them, & have made the librarian promise me a copy of some of them; and I mean to get some of the hair if I can. The verses are Spanish—the letters Italian—some signed—others with a cross—but all in her own hand-writing.

I am so hurried, & so sleepy, but so anxious to send you even a few lines my dearest Augusta, that you will forgive me troubling you so often; and I shall write again soon; but I have sent you so much lately, that you will have too many perhaps. A thousand, loves to you from me—which is very generous for I only ask one in return

It is a month since the date of your last letter—but you are not to suppose that your letters do not arrive. All the assertions of the post being impeded are (I believe) false; and the faults of their non-arrival are in those who write, (or rather do not write) not in the conveyance. I have hitherto written to you very regularly, indeed rather perhaps too often, but I now tell you that I will not write again at all, if I wait so long for my answers. I have received no less than three letters from one person all dated within this month of Octr, so that it cannot be the fault of the post, and as to the address—I particularly stated Geneva, as usual poste restante, or to the care of Monsr Hentsch Banquier Geneva—perhaps the latter is safest. I mention all this—not from any wish to plague you—but because [my unfortunate effaced] circumstances perhaps make me feel more keenly anything which looks like neglect; and as among my faults towards you, that at least has not been one, even in that in which I am often negligent—viz.—letter writing—pray do not set me the example, lest I follow it.

I have written twice since my arrival at Milan and once before I left Geneva. My Diodati letter contained some directions about my daughter Ada, and I hope you received that letter & fulfilled my request as far as regards my child. I wish also to know if Scrope delivered the things entrusted to him by me, as I have no news of that illustrious personage. Milan has been an agreeable residence to me, but we propose going on to Venice next week. You will address however as usual (to my bankers) to Geneva. I have found a good many of the noble as well as literary classes of society intelligent, & very kind & attentive to strangers. I have seen all the sights, & last night among others heard an Improvisatore recite, a very celebrated one, named Sgricchi. It is not an amusing though a curious effort of human powers. I

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enclose you a letter of Monti (who is here & whom I know), the most famous Italian poet now living, as a specimen of his handwriting. If there are any of your acquaintance fond of collecting such things you may give it to them; it is not addressed to me.

I really do not & cannot understand all the mysteries & alarms in your letters & more particularly in the last. All I know is—that no human power short of destruction—shall prevent me from seeing you when—where—& how—I may please—according to time & circumstance; that you are the only comfort (except the remote possibility of my daughter’s being so) left me in prospect in existence, and that I can bear the rest—so that you remain; but anything which is to divide us would drive me quite out of my senses; Miss Milbanke appears in all respects to have been formed for my destruction; I have thus far—as you know—regarded her without feelings of personal bitterness towards her, but if directly or indirectly—but why do I say this?—You know she is the cause of all—whether intentionally or not is little to the purpose——You surely do not mean to say that if I come to England in Spring, that you & I shall not meet? If so I will never return to it—though I must for many

1 The preceding letter.

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reasons—business &c &c—But I quit this topic for the present.

My health is good, but I have now & then fits of giddiness, & deafness, which make me think like Swift—that I shall be like him & the withered tree he saw—which occasioned the reflection and “die at top” first. My hair is growing grey, & not thicker; & my teeth are sometimes looseish though still white & sound. Would not one think I was sixty instead of not quite nine & twenty? To talk thus—Never mind—either this must end—or I must end—but I repeat it again & again—that woman has destroyed me.

I go every morning to the Armenian Convent (of friars not Nuns—my child) to study the language, I mean the Armenian language, (for as you perhaps know—I am versed in the Italian which I speak with fluency rather

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than accuracy), and if you ask me my reason for studying this out of the way language—I can only answer that it is Oriental and difficult, & employs me—which are—as you know my Eastern & difficult way of thinking—reasons sufficient. Then I have fallen in love with a very pretty Venetian of two & twenty,1 with great black eyes. She is married—and so am I—which is very much to the purpose. We have formed and sworn an eternal attachment, which has already lasted a lunar month, & I am more in love than ever, & so is the lady—at least she says so. She does not plague me (which is a wonder) and I verily believe we are one of the happiest—unlawful couples on this side of the Alps. She is very handsome, very Italian or rather Venetian, with something more of the Oriental cast of countenance; accomplished and musical after the manner of her nation. Her spouse is a very good kind of man who occupies himself elsewhere, and thus the world goes on here as elsewhere. This adventure came very opportunely to console me, for I was beginning to be “like Sam Jennings very unappy” but at present—at least for a month past—I have been very tranquil, very loving, & have not so much embarassed myself with the tortures of the last two years and that virtuous monster Miss Milbanke, who had nearly driven me out of my senses.—[curse her effaced]2

Hobhouse is gene to Rome with his brother and sister—but returns here in February: you will easily suppose that I was not disposed to stir from my present position.

I have not heard recently from England & wonder if Murray has published the po’s sent to him; & I want to know if you don’t think them very fine & all that—Goosey my love—don’t they make you “put finger in eye?”

You can have no idea of my thorough wretchedness from the day of my parting from you till nearly a month ago though I struggled against it with some strength. At present I am better—thank Heaven above—&

1 Marianna (or Marianina) Segati. 2 The erasure is probably by Mrs. Leigh.

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woman beneath—and I will be a very good boy. Pray remember me to the babes, & tell me of little Da—who by the way—is a year old and a few days over.

My love to you all & to Aunt Sophy1: pray tell her in particular that I have consoled myself; and tell Hodgson that his prophecy is accomplished. He said—you remember—I should be in love with an Italian—so I am.—

I wrote to you twice within the last and present months. Your letter of the 24th arrived to-day. So you have got the po’s. Pray tell me if Murray has omitted any stanzas in the publication; if he has I shall be very seriously displeased with him. The number sent was 118 to the 3d Canto.3 You do not mention the concluding 4 to my daughter Ada which I hoped would give you pleasure at least. I care not much about opinions at this time of day, and I am certain in my mind that this Canto is the best which I have ever written; there is depth of thought in it throughout and a strength of repressed passion which you must feel before you find; but it requires reading more than once, because it is in part metaphysical, and of a kind metaphysics which every will not understand. I

1 Sophia Byron. 2 Jane Clairmont, step-daughter of William Godwin. See “Letters and Journals,” Vol. III., pp. 347 and 427. 3 Of “Childe Harold.”

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never thought that it would be popular & should not think well of it if it were, but those for whom it is intended will like it. Pray remember to tell me if any have been omitted in the publication. The lines on Drachenfels originally addressed to you, ought to be (& I suppose are) in the centre of the Canto—and the number of Stanzas in the whole 118—besides 4 of ten lines beginning with “Drachenfels” the lines which I sent to ou (sic) at the time from Coblentz—with the violets dearest ✣

Have you also got Chillon & the Dream & do you understand the latter?

If Murray has mutilated the MS. with his Toryism, or his notions about family considerations I shall not pardon him & am sure to know it sooner or later & to let him know it also.

I wrote to you the other day about Ada, if the answer is still refused I shall take legal measures to enforce it, and have ordered H.1 to do so. Remember I do not seek this, I wish it not, I regret it, but I require an explicit promise that Ada shall on no consideration quit the country, whether the mother does or no, and by all that is most sacred, there is no measure which I will not take to prevent it, failing in a reply to my just demand. So say—and so I will do. They will end by driving me mad, I wonder they have not already.

Marianina is not very well to-day, and I shall stay with her to nurse her this Evening. It is the Carnival, but the height of the Masquing is not yet begun. Catalani comes here on the 20th, but we have famous Music already, and a better opera than in London and a finer theatre, the Fenice by name, where I have a box, which costs me about 14 pounds sterling for the season instead

1 Hanson, his solicitor.

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of four hundred as in London, and a better box and a better opera, besides the music the Scenery is most superb. There is also a ballet inferior to the singing. The Society is like all foreign Society. There is also a Ridotto. My paper’s out.

Instead of a description of the lady whom Aunt Sophy wants to have described, I will show you her picture, which is just finished for me, some of these days or other. The Carnival is over, but I am not in a descriptive mood, and will reserve all my wonders for word of mouth, when I see you again. I have nothing which would make you laugh much, except a battle some weeks ago in my apartment, between two of the fair “sect” (sisters in law) which ended in the flight of one and the fits of the other, and a great deal of confusion and eau de Cologne, and asterisks, and all that. The cause was—one paying me an evening visit. The other was gone out to a Conversazione, as was supposed for the evening, but lo and behold, in about half an hour she returned and entering my room, without a word, administered (before I could prevent her) about sixteen such slaps to her relation, as would have made your ear ache only to hear them. The assaulted lady screamed and ran away, the assailant attempted pursuit, but being prevented by me, fairly went into asterisks, which cost a world of water of all sorts, besides fine speeches to appease, and even then she declared herself a very ill used person,

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although victorious over a much taller woman than herself. Besides she wronged my innocence, for nothing could be more innocent than my colloquy with the other. You may tell this to Sophy if she wants amusement. I repeat (as in my former letter) that I really and truly know nothing of P.P.1

I am glad to hear of Ada’s progress in her mother tongue, I hope you will see her again soon. What you “hope” may be, I do not know, if you mean a reunion between Lady B. and me, it is too late. It is now a year, and I have repeatedly offered to make it up, with what success you know. At present if she would rejoin me to-morrow, I would not accept the proposition. I have no spirit of hatred against her, however, I am too sensitive not to feel injuries, but far too proud to be vindictive. She’s a fool, and when you have said that, it is the most that can be said for her.

I have taken a flight down here (see the Map), but shall return to Venice in fifteen days from this date, so address all answers to my usual head- (or rather heart-) quarters—that is to Venice. I am very well, quite recovered, & as is always the case after all illness—particularly fever—got large, ruddy, & robustous to a degree which would please you—& shock me. I have been on horse-back several hours a day for this last ten days, besides now & then on my journey; proof positive of high health, & curiosity, & exercise. Love me—& don’t be afraid—I mean of my sicknesses. I get well, & shall

1 Lord Ernle explains this as referring to “Peter or Patrick Pattieson,” the fictitious character under which Scott disguised the authorship of the first series of the “Tales of my Landlord.” See “Letters and Journals,” Vol. IV., p. 56.

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always get so, & have luck enough still to beat most things; & whether I win or not—depend upon it—I will fight to the last.

Will you tell my wife “mine excellent Wife” that she is brewing a Cataract for herself & me in these foolish equivocations about Ada,—a job for lawyers—& more hatred for every body, for which—(God knows), there is no occasion. She is surrounded by people who detest me—Brougham the lawyer—who never forgave me for saying that Mrs Ge Lambe was a damned fool (by the way I did not then know he was in love with her) in 1814, & for a former savage note in my foolish satire, all which is good reason for him—but not for Lady Bn; besides her mother—&c &c &c—so that what I may say or you may say is of no great use—however—say it. If she supposes that I want to hate or plague her (however wroth circumstances at times may make me in words & in temporary gusts or disgusts of feeling), she is quite out—I have no such wish—& never had, & if she imagines that I now wish to become united to her again she is still more out. I never will. I would to the end of the year succeeding our separation—(expired nearly a month ago, Legal reckoning), according to a resolution I had taken thereupon—but the day & the hour is gone by—and it is irrevocable. But all this is no reason for further misery & quarrel; Give me but a fair share of my daughter—the half—my natural right & authority, & I am content; otherwise I come to England, & “law & claw before they get it,” all which will vex & out live Sir R. & Ly N.1 besides making Mrs Clermont bilious—& plaguing Bell herself, which I really by the great God! wish to avoid. Now pray see her & say so—it may do good—& if not—she & I are but what we are, & God knows that is wretched enough—at least to me.

I found here an old letter of yours dated November 1816—to which the best answer I can make—is none.

1 Noel.

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You are sadly timid1 my child, but so you all shewed yourselves when you could have been useful—particularly ——2 but never mind. I shall not forget him, though I do not rejoice in any ill which befalls him. Is the fool’s spawn a son or a daughter? you say one—& others another; so Sykes works him—let him—I shall live to see him & W.3 destroyed, & more than them—& then—but let all that pass for the present.

Dearest Augusta—I returned home a few days ago from Rome but wrote to you on the road; at Florence I believe, or Bologna. The last city you know—or do not know—is celebrated for the production of Popes—Cardinals—painters—& sausages—besides a female professor of anatomy, who has left there many models of the art in waxwork, some of them not the most decent.—I have received all your letters I believe, which are full of woes, as usual, megrims & mysteries; but my sympathies remain in suspense, for, for the life of me I can’t make out whether your disorder is a broken heart or the earache—or whether it is you that have been ill or the children—or what your melancholy & mysterious apprehensions tend to, or refer to, whether to Caroline Lamb’s novels—Mrs Clermont’s evidence—Lady Byron’s magnanimity—or any other piece of imposture; I know nothing of what you are in the doldrums about at present. I should think all that could affect you must have been over long ago; & as for me—leave me to take care of myself. I may be ill or well—in high or low spirits—in

1 “Sadly timid” is substituted for “a sad coward,” erased. 2 George Byron. 3 Wilmot.

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quick or obtuse state of feelings—like any body else, but I can battle my way through; better than your exquisite piece of helplessness G. L.1 or that other poor creature George Byron, who will be finely helped up in a year or two with his new state of life—I should like to know what they would do in my situation, or in any situation. I wish well to your George, who is the best of the two a devilish deal—but as for the other I shan’t forget him in a hurry, & if I ever forgive or allow an opportunity to escape of evincing my sense of his conduct (& of more than his) on a certain occasion—write me down—what you will, but do not suppose me asleep. “Let them look to their bond”—sooner or later time & Nemesis will give me the ascendant—& then “let them look to their bond.” I do not of course allude only to that poor wretch, but to all—to the 3d & 4th generation of these accursed Amalekites & the woman who has been the stumbling block of my——

Since the pictures are so bad—they need not be copied—the poor painter seems to have been ignorant of the art of flattery.—It is to be recollected that I was ill at the time—& had been so for months—that one of them was done in the climax of a slow fever—and that the other is an attempt to supply the health which I had not recovered.—Send me Holmes’s print—one or two copies—they can come by the common post—not being heavy.—The last (the Venice) need not be copied.

I fear that not any good can be done by your speaking to Ly Biron (sic)—but I think it my duty to give fair warning—because they have broken their word;—they are not aware that if I please I can dissolve the separation—which is not a legal act—nor further binding than the will of the parties; I shall therefore not only take all proper and legal steps—but the former correspondence shall be published—& the whole business from the beginning investigated in all the courts of which it is susceptible;—unless the reasonable assurance which I have required with regard to my daughter be accorded—& now—come what may—as I have said—so will I do & have already given the proper instructions to the proper persons—to prepare for the steps above mentioned.——

[A half sheet, partly written upon by Lord Byron, is here torn off, and the letter continues on another and smaller sheet as follows.]

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I particularly beg that you will contrive to get the enclosed letter safely delivered to Lady Frances,3 & if there is an answer to let me have it. You can write to her first & state that you have such a letter—at my request—for there is no occasion for any concealment at

1 Underlined twice. 2 Substituted for “the,” erased. 3 Wedderburne Webster.

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least with her—& pray oblige me so far, for many reasons. If the Queen dies you are no more a Maid of Honour—is it not so? Allegra1 is well, but her mother (whom the Devil confound) came prancing the other day over the Appennines—to see her shild; which threw my Venetian loves (who are none of the quietest) into great combustion; and I was in a pucker till I got her to the Euganean hills, where she & the child now are, for the present. I declined seeing her for fear that the consequence might be an addition to the family; she is to have the child a month with her and then to return herself to Lucca, or Naples, where she was with her relatives (she is English you know), & to send Allegra to Venice again. I lent her my house at Este for her maternal holidays. As troubles don’t come single, here is another confusion. The chaste wife of a baker—having quarrelled with her tyrannical husband—has run away to me (God knows without being invited), & resists all the tears & penitence and beg-pardons of her disconsolate Lord, and the threats of the police, and the priest of the parish besides; and swears she won’t give up her unlawful love (myself), for any body, or any thing. I assure you I have begged her in all possible ways too to go back to her husband, promising her all kinds of eternal fidelity into the bargain, but she only flies into a fury; and as she is a very tall and formidable Girl of three and twenty, with the large black eyes and handsome face of a pretty fiend, a correspondent figure and a carriage as haughty as a Princess—with the violent passions & capacities for mischief of an Italian when they are roused—I am a little embarrassed with my unexpected acquisition. However she keeps my household in rare order, and has already frightened the learned Fletcher out of his remnants of wits more than once; we have turned her into a housekeeper. As the morals of this place are very lax, all the women commend her

1 Alba or Clara Allegra Biron, his natural daughter by Jane Clairmont. See note, p. 280.

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& say she has done right—especially her own relations. You need not be alarmed—I know how to manage her—and can deal with anything but a cold blooded animal such as Miss Milbanke. The worst is that she won’t let a woman come into the house, unless she is as old and frightful as possible; and has sent so many to the right about that my former female acquaintances are equally frightened & angry. She is extremely fond of the child, & is very cheerful & goodnatured, when not jealous; but Othello himself was a fool to her in that respect. Her soubriquet in her family was la Mora from her colour, as she is very dark (though clear of complexion), which literally means the Moor so that I have “the Moor I of Venice” in propria persona as part of my household. She has been here this month. I had known her (and fifty others) more than a year, but did not anticipate this escapade, which was the fault of her booby husband’s treatment—who now runs about repenting & roaring like a bull calf. I told him to take her in the devil’s name, but she would not stir; & made him a long speech in the Venetian dialect which was more entertaining to anybody than to him to whom it was addressed. You see Goose—that there is no quiet in this world—so be a good woman—& repent of yr sins.

Allegra is well at Venice—There are also a fox, some dogs and two monkies, all scratching, screaming and fighting—in the highest health and Spirits. Fletcher is

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flourishing. Lady B. has refused a character to his wife, a little revenge of a-piece with her own. You say nothing of Ada, how is she? doubtless Lady Noel is as immortal as ever. Her death would do too much good for Providence to permit it in this state of sublunary things. If you see my Spouse—do pray tell her I wish to marry again and as probably she may wish the same, is there no way in Scotland? without compromising her immaculacy—cannot it be done there by the husband solely?