Lord Byron's Novel (40 page)
‘Stand aside,’ I said. ‘We will be gone.’
Then a change came over his features, as though he quickly changed one mask for another, and he held out a hand to Una—‘Come close, Child,’ whispered he. ‘He shall not harm thee. Come, come and stand by me.’ With a strange reluctance, and yet with eyes fixed upon his, she did so—and when she had approached near enough, he moved his hands about her head, all the while gazing into her eyes, as though piercing into her Soul with an awl! In a breath, she had grown entirely still—her eyes lost their light, tho’ they closed not—her arms lifted somewhat from her sides, but will-lessly, as though she floated in water. Now and
only
now, Brother, did fear come upon me—for you know I have seen such things done, and
worse
—I have myself directed the Will-less—and here stood one able to steal a Soul, it seemed, and make it his!
Yet I was not without weapons—crude tho’ they were—and produced a decidedly
un
spiritual Pistol from within my clothes, and cock’d the hammer. At that the Magician—for such he was—back’d away. I demanded he release Una’s spirit—reverse the charm he had placed upon her—but he only back’d further from me—out the door and to the Passage beyond. ‘Touch her not, on your life,’ said he to me. ‘If
you
wake her she will die upon the instant. Kill me, and she will never wake. The house is raised. You have no escape!’ With that he turned, and fled along the hall, crying
Help, help!
in a loud voice, and I heard voices and hollas from below.
There we were then, my Brother, she and I—she frozen in a Dream, and I unwilling and unable to desert her. I admit my powers had come to an end, and I knew not whither to turn. What happened in the next moment was, of all things I might have projected—were I able to project anything—the last. For no sooner had the Doctor turned and run away than the pixie beside me awoke—no, not so, for she had never been asleep!—she
ceased her play,
became in less than an instant a human child again, and with a mighty motion slammed shut the Door—which upon our side had its key in the lock—the which she turned, took out, and held up to me in triumph! Then without ado she went to the window of the room, and flung up the sash—it happened that we were upon the second storey—and only then did she speak to me. ‘Can you climb well?’ she asked me.
‘Like a monkey,’ said I.
‘I too,’ said she, ‘tho’
they
mayn’t know it.’ She and I look’d then together out the window—where thick Vines clung to the ancient stone, and sharp Cornices extended a foothold, as from a rocky cliff—and a Trellis of climbing flowers afforded a ladder. ‘I shall go first,’ said my fellow Conspirator, ‘and you follow after.’—‘Nay,’ said I, ‘for if I go first, and I fall,
you
will fall on
me
—which is better than the other choice.’ At this she nodded solemnly, seeing my reasoning, and I climbed out the window, upon the strong branches, a Romeo in reverse, and took her small body in my arms to help her out. There will be much I may forget, of all that I have done in all the years of my life—much that, if Providence be kind, I
shall
forget—but not that, that she leapt so bravely from the place of her confinement into my arms—
my arms!
—that never held such a Prize before—indeed, never before a prize at all!
The questions
you
may now ask—whether she
ever
truly sleep-walked and sleep-spoke at the Doctor’s command, or only play’d the Part—how she had come to learn to
prophesy
as she did, if she did—how the Doctor had found her at the first, and how carried her off—to none of these have I an answer as yet, for we only fled as fast as we could without arousing undue attention, to the Docks, where at Wapping I had Confederates, at work finding us passage away, with all necessary for a journey in
one
direction only. Through all this—flight with a strange man, the prospect of a Sea-journey, forsaking all she had known, the vanishing of my promises to take her home—she was as cool as any
desperado,
with the
noblesse
of a fairy queen. When I myself took note of my pledge to return her to her Relations, she dismissed the idea—they were the
last
people in whose care she desired to be—we Mahometans ought to
stick together
—so she imply’d.
So there she sleeps, in her berth upon Thames’ bosom—all her inheritance (to date) kept in a leathern Satchel, beneath my feet—for servants a
Bear,
and a Nurse I thought to engage, whom we may put ashore with the pilot’s boat at Greenwich, as Una thinks her superfluous. For me, my ‘occupation’s gone’—I must learn another, suited to the lands to which I go. I cannot liberate a World, or free from bondage a People—these
ambitions
I here renounce, and my title to them I pass to you—they are all the bequest I make you. But do not fear—we are Friends now, and so nothing can harm you.
Where may you seek us, should you ever desire to? When I was a Seaman, and had conversation with men of all lands, I knew a German pilot who, if not in
Drink,
was a
raconteur
in his own tongue—whereby I learn’d a word or two—and it seem’d to me a fine thing, that he would name the Indies, toward which we sail’d, by the term
Abendland,
which is Evening Land—there where the Sun goes at end of day—yet it was not Poetic in him, but meant only the plain West we name in our tongue. We shall proceed, then, to the Evening Land—the last remnant of our house—myself—the Bear, grown hoary (tho’ you mayn’t have known it, your black Bear can grow grey, even as his Ward)—and
she
—the daughter of a Cripple and a Madwoman, and yet herself as sound and as
sane
as a gold dollar.
She
I was able to liberate, and carry to freedom—whatever Freedom may mean—
self-government
is to be a part of it—of
that
I have evidence already. She is the heiress of the Sanes—the only there will ever be—tho’ she dwell where her Nobility means nothing, and will mean nothing to her, nor to her own Descendants—if she have any—the which I intend to assure her she
may
—if so she chuse. Already I know that what
I
chuse for her, and what
direction
I give, will not be as law to her, however I may regard the matter—and this too is the legacy of the Sanes, is it not? And one that, unlike her
Title,
she may pass on to the latest generation—may they profit by it.
We are bound first for Charleston Bay, and whither thence? I am sorry I shall not be able to view General Washington, who lies asleep now with the world’s true heroes—‘Washington was killed in a duel with Burke,’ I once heard one say at a
conversazione
in Venice, and could not think what, in the name of folly, the fellow meant by saying it—until I remembered
Burr,
who slew Hamilton and not the greater man—no matter—I am myself just as ignorant of that country in many ways, an ignorance I
delight in,
for I have done with the world I am
not
ignorant of. Perhaps we shall go down the Mississippi, as Lord Edward Fitzgerald did—the only
pure
hero I have ever known, or known of—and like him look even farther, past the gulph of Mexico, to Darien, the Brazils, the Orinoco—I know not.
And so farewell. I am not so foolish as to think America is a
Physician,
or a
Priest
—I know that all diseases are not cured there, nor all sins forgiven. And yet on this morning I feel as one who has nightlong in a dream struggled with an enemy, and has waked at last, to find his arms are empty.—Æ
NGUS
There was no more. Ali, who had read this missive as he stood upon the great stone bridge over the river named ——, in the ancient city of ——, Capital of the nation of ——, now tore and cast it upon the waves, and chin in hand he watched the remnants float a time, and then sink away.—You see that I do not name the place, for it may be that this Manuscript of the tale of his adventures will come to light, in not too long a time, and therefore to reveal these things would endanger my Hero—engaged upon the work he has been given—which, if it was at first to
tear down,
in his own conception no longer was—he had hopes, tho’ they were
only
hopes, that by his actions the Lucifers might one day contrive to unbind Prometheus—their old
foregoer
—the Brother of that cloven-hooved naysayer, their Namesake—and bring a new, and a better, Dispensation, tho’ it take a hundred years. Not he—not Una—but perhaps
her
child, and a child of
mine own
child, might live to look upon that world. Such is my hope—you may open my heart, and see it graven there, if you would, the only thing
not vain
that there remains.
But I have drawn my pen across that foolish paragraph—or certainly soon shall—signifying that it must form no part of the tale, nor see printer’s ink. Yet ’tis just as foolish to suppose that
any
of this tale, of Ængus and Ali, of Iman and Susanna, Catherine and Una, will ever be set in type, or fall beneath the gaze of readers. Whatever Poets say of outlasting ‘marble and the gilded monuments of Princes’, it is all but paper, and has its enemies—the sea,
fire,
chance, malice, and I know not what. These pages may be lost, or may survive only to furnish a Grocer the means of wrapping a parcel—as we read that the MS of Richardson’s
Pamela
was used, to wrap up a rasher of Bacon for a Gypsy later proved to be a murderess. Well—’twould be enough—Solomon promises no more to all our efforts. Yet if thus these sheets must be used, kind Grocer, let it not be for greasy bacon—wrap Eve’s red apple in them, or a golden plum, or any sweet fruit, and put it into a young Maid’s hands!
NOTES FOR THE LAST CHAPTER
- Mesmer, Puységur, Combe, & Spurzheim:
This miscellanæum is as random as a quack Doctor’s ought to be. Anton Mesmer is of course the developer of the now-exploded theory of Animal Magnetism; Armand Puységur his follower; George Combe, the modern developer of Phrenology; Johann Casper Spurzheim, the phrenological doctor who examined my father (see above, what Chapter I know not, I cannot seek it now). - a Steam-engine:
Captain Trelawney says that Ld. B. was indeed once solicited to invest in a flying-machine with a steam-engine, and did not. Even now such a thing may not be possible. I thought once when a child - beseeched Allah:
I missed his love, and more, his governance—but not only for myself—the love and governance he could have given to his wife, if he had chosen. They smashed something that would surely have broken by itself soon or late. And yet that thing was mine, too, and not theirs alone—they had not all rights in it - Friends:
Lord Byron had a curious superstition, that if he had quarrelled with anyone he cared for, that person was in danger somehow, or in harm’s way, till the quarrel was made up, and they were friends again. - Evening Land:
There is always a West into which the heroes of the older age may go. Just beneath this word, in the small dictionary that I have, is another,
Abentreuer,
which means generally an Adventure, but is more exactly or loosely a journey West. Where dawn comes, of course, as everywhere. No end to the West till those who journey thence come round again at the last. - drawn my pen across:
The paragraph is not struck out, nor of course was meant to be—though whether it will see ink another age will know.
A strange thought now occurs. Might it not have been the case, that this MS was not taken from Ld. B. nor lost or misplaced by him—but was
bestowed
by him upon one whom he had reason to believe would preserve it—and its message of Liberty. Could he have guessed that it might thus come to England that his daughter being
his
daughter might grow up to love liberty as he had wd befriend those Italians in London and thus acquire that which he had attempted thus to transmit to her no no I rave here why did he not send to me his thoughts a letter to tell me there wd have been a way never now I wd give all this tale for it - apple:
The pages have not met so mean a fate as that yet they have indeed their ‘enemies’—they will not themselves survive to be found. Some of the sheets must have been infused with salts of copper, or other fulminates, in their manufacture—they burned blue and green Lights are said to burn low and blue when ghosts are by. The words turned white upon a black page then gone. I would not watch all. One sheet only I have saved—William could not refuse me one at least to keep
I had a last thing to say to all who read this I cannot say it.
Finis
From: “Smith”
To: [email protected]
Subject: Oscar etc.
Lee:
Congrats about the Oscar nomination for the East Timor film. Are you going to take a chance on coming to the US in case you get it? I’ll buy you lunch if you come by way of Boston, and I promise not to lure you into a trap.
S
PS The book’s due out in six months—a little more maybe. Would you have any interest in writing an introduction?
From: [email protected]
To: “Smith”
Subject: RE:Oscar etc.
No, not coming. It’s a long shot to say the least. And my tuxedo no longer fits. And no I will not write an introduction to the published book; my credentials are a little old, Alexandra, by now, and anyway wouldn’t it look a little funny? And no, I don’t know anyone you might ask—that is to say, I know some names, but they are all from a long time ago, and I don’t even know which are alive and which are dead. Harold Bloom? A wise man; I met him once or twice…I see that lately there have been a couple of what seem to me rather invidious new biographies of Byron by women, who have some very definite ideas about what Byron was up to; it would be nice (anyway
I
think it would be nice) to have this piece of his introduced by someone who likes him. But never mind all of that anyway: the only person who can, or must, or ought to, write any kind of introduction is you. Ada’s written hers; it’s your turn.
I’m going back to East Timor in another couple of weeks. There are people there who need to know the news about how the film has been received—it counts as security for them, or at least I hope it does—the whole world is watching, at least on Oscar night, except the doc awards are when people get up and go for beer.
Then the new project—I’m going to New Guinea for some months. It’s a place I’ve been reading about and talking to people about for years, and some money has come through at last. I have bad dreams about it, too, or at least unsettling ones. Anyway I’ll be way out of touch, probably, for some months, though I guess now there’s nowhere on earth that’s out of touch. If I can find a phone I can send a letter. Probably. I’ll be back in Tokyo again then for the editing and postproduction as they call it, which is going to take longer than the shooting. I don’t know what your plans are. I’m just letting you know. Now that I’ve caught you in the Web (or wasn’t it rather you who caught me?) I will sit down beside you, and hope I don’t frighten you away.
I love you, Alexandra, even more than I knew. I don’t—I wouldn’t dare—hold you to the standard that Byron set, that you must love me for my crimes if you are to love me for myself; I hold you to no standard. I wish only that I could sign this differently, with a title—an honorific—not just a name. But I know I haven’t earned that, and probably never will; and so I am—
Yours ever
Lee
PS: I note that there’s a Byron conference being held in Kyoto—beautiful city—in the spring of 2004. Good place for a launch?
From: “Smith”
To: “Thea”
Subject: FWD:Congratulations
Thea—
Look what I got in the old in-box this morning. When I tried to reply, I got the Mailer Daemon: No such address at AOL. He’s not on the Web either, but we already knew that, and we also knew that it’s not his name anyway.
From: “RoonyJ”
To: “Smith”
Subject: Congratulations
Ms. Novak—
I see by the noise in the press and the literary sites that a lost novel of Byron’s, or part of one, is to see print soon. I wanted to congratulate you, and tell you how pleased I am, that you and your associates (?) discovered the secret of
The Evening Land
and Ada’s devotion. It is indeed a remarkable tale. I am also thrilled and not a little awestruck that you have, apparently, overcome any doubts you might (must?) have felt as to the authenticity of the book, its provenance, etc. I only assume you have gone through the rigmarole of having the paper carbon-dated and the ink chemically analyzed etc. so that doubters may be confounded. The
lingering
doubts—e.g., how easy it would be to fill pages of old printed forms (found by chance, say, and blank) with numbers (so much easier to forge than a
whole cursive handwriting)—these will be overcome by the overwhelming “internal evidence” that the work
is
by Byron, and that it is the work that Ada destroyed—I mean, did not destroy. And as no one in any case has any reason to forge a document that is then practically given away, no
real
questions can afterward remain.
I am of course mad with eagerness to read the whole in your transcription. From what I hear, or read, about its contents, it would seem that the book does put the old Cloven Hoof in a new and flattering, or at least not hellish, light. I couldn’t be more pleased. I have always believed that when I reach Paradise—and I am sure of my election, Ms. Novak, as I am of his—I will be able to prove to myself that he was the man I even now know him to have been—a flawed and inconsistent but ultimately a great-natured and good and endlessly, wisely entertaining man. And I shall sit on my cloud or my flowery mead, and listen to his talk, and be very, very happy. Until then (not, it would appear, too long a time from now) I will have
The Evening Land.
Yours
“Roony J. Welch”
Wow, huh? I felt this rush of shit to the heart at first to read this, but now—I don’t know. Not anymore.
Smith
From: “Thea”
To: “Smith”
Subject: RE:FWD:Congratulations
wow this is the guy who started it all sinister very makes you wonder what if yeah its sort of like ada when she was wondering if she enciphered it all wrong wrong numbers but then got a book anyway this book that wd be a coincidence that wd make anything babbage programmed into his engine look like nothing
well i am deciding we are good here mr welch can go back to hell or where he came from
babe heres whats important
ily
lol
and btw whats for dinner
t