Lord Byron's Novel: The Evening Land by John Crowley
He said no more upon this score, yet Lieutenant Upward, who had more experience of the world of Females, indeed of wives, than Ali would ever acquire, was not so baffled as he. There are, among the great variety of our fallen race, those whose motives we may catalogue, though we do not understand, and that might fill volumes, if we cared to write them down; and the Military Surgeon knew that, just as there are men who will provoke a duel for no other reason than to satisfy an obscure rage against all the living, so there are women who will provoke a husband to a duel, or a murder—with the husband’s complicity, whether spoken or silent—and in circumstances that would seem to destroy, yet actually strengthens, as in a forge’s heat, the bond between them—a bond which may not have been made in Heaven, nor be sanctioned there.
‘He was prepared to kill me, and for all that I begged her to tell the truth, she only wept—and still he came upon me, myself unarmed.’
‘He wore his sword?’
‘Yes,’ said Ali, ‘the which I wondered at—not then, but later—as ’twas unusual, at evening, in camp.’
‘I warrant,’ said the Military Surgeon: for he thought to himself, ‘This Captain and his wife played here a delicate game—the time must be carefully chosen—their prey not so easily dispatched as to show no sport, yet not so strong or quick as to end the game altogether, in a conclusion the reverse of that expected—as here happened, it seems.’
‘He struck at me, and I felt the cut,’ said Ali. ‘My hand took up the first thing it found to strike back with—’twas a boot—which came unexpectedly at the Captain, and by a chance knocked the sword from his hand. I had it before he could recover it, and thus armed I rose to face him—but he had gone for a pistol that I had not seen—he was attempting to cock it, and withdraw from me at the same time—and in my fear and his confusion I ran him through the body.’
‘You slew him? And with his own weapon? An officer of the French Army? The Devil you did!’
‘I am certain of it,’ Ali said. ‘I saw him expire upon the ground. His wife flung herself upon his bloody breast, in tears—yet she was silent, strange as it may seem, and raised no alarm. After that I saw no more—for I fled. No one challenged me—I was a common sight in that part of the camp, running errands for the Captain—and the night was dark. I was soon beyond the limits of the encampment, and amid the Camp-followers and their fires and habitations. Truly, I knew not what would become of me among them—whether I should be discovered, and returned, for reward or other reason, or shunned, or let to die—as without aid I knew I should, for my wound, which had seemed small, and was now stanched, had occasioned a grievous loss of blood.’
Again the wounded man fell upon his pillow—for he was no Italian tenor, capable of recounting a long tale while dying of his wounds—and it was evening before he could recover. When his eyes opened, and he seemed to recognize his surroundings—and the hand of Dolores upon him—then he grasped convulsively at the smock he wore, a gesture they had seen him perform often. The Military Surgeon desired to know what it was he sought for within his clothes. For a time Ali resisted his questions, which became demands, but at length he asked for a knife—cut the stitches of his coat—and drew from within its linings a handful of papers, which with some misgivings he allowed the Military Surgeon to peruse.
‘Before we fought,’ he said, ‘and upon his return to his wife’s quarters, the Captain threw upon the table a portfolio tied with tapes. I knew not its contents, but I had seen similar despatch cases, and could guess that this one contained letters and documents of relevance to the evening’s conference. Before I fled that place, I gathered them up—and these are they.’
A glance proved that indeed the papers were as Ali described them, letters and minutes relating to the strategies and plans of the French general staff. Lieutenant Upward wished to know, ‘Did the French command believe the Captain to be still in possession of the papers?’, to which Ali replied that he could not be sure, but considered it likely that they did not know they were no longer in that officer’s quarters, or among his effects—and that they were therefore more valuable, indeed were intelligence of very great import, if brought before the right eyes, and put to the proper uses.
‘The proper uses,’ mused Lieutenant Upward. ‘Yes, the proper uses!’
For only a moment was the Military Surgeon tempted to bring these revelations to his superiors as though acquired by himself—for doubtless the bringing of them would redound to his great Credit—and perhaps even accomplish his dearest goal, the winning of a Promotion to such a height of grandeur as would permit him to leave the service altogether, and return in triumph to England. And yet upon consideration he saw it would be wrong, and dishonourable—and, despite his brooding long over the question, he could not think of a tale to explain how such papers might have come to him. He settled, therefore, for the reflected glory he would earn by bringing Ali and his purloined letters to the Council of Gods who were then disposing of the human fates in their hands.
Those august Commanders were quite of a mind to dismiss the documents laid before them at first—were unconvinced by Ali—look’d darkly upon him to learn whose son he was, for even in Iberia the story of his father’s death and his own flight was partly known—and he had fought for the French, had he not? Whether suborned, as he said, or willingly—well, who could know? Nor did it matter much, for clearly in his Impressment by the French he had chosen base Dishonour over Death (as none of them, they were each quite sure, would do). They would know, ‘How he came in the first instance to the shores of France from Scotland?’, ‘How he rose from a press-ganged Foot-soldier to an officer’s Aide?’, and other questions that Ali might have hung his head to answer, or not to answer, and yet his replies were so frank, and his honesty so apparent, that they were themselves abashed. Meantime the papers were put before them, and examined—and cloudily an understanding began to arise in their minds. The French Generals held no high opinion of their opponent—‘Il est évident,’ declared these Minutes, ‘que les anglais pusillanimes préferent ramper comme des vers à travers la terre trainant leurs bagages, leurs animaux et leurs chariots plutôt que de se lever et de se battre. Une fois provoqués, ils sont susceptibles à se battre en retraite à plat ventre. C’est donc l’objectif de sa gracieuse Majesté Joseph d’Espagne ainsi que de l’Empereur, de provoquer une bataille qui reglera la question une fois pour toutes,’ &c., with many other insults and sneers at English cowardice and temporizing. In conclusion, the French sword-rattlers declared that their pusillanime enemy must be inveigled into battle by ‘une faiblesse apparente de notre part de sorte à tenter cet ennemi, si timide soit-il!’ The General Staff passed these papers about—they humm’d—hawed—bethought themselves what great value there was in knowing with certainty what their opponent thought of them, and what he would therefore make of what he saw them do—that his prejudices might be seemingly confirmed, by what he saw—and that therefore he might be drawn into that worst of military errors, an unwarranted contempt for the foe. (So the books have it, from which alone I take all the little learning in the subject as I have: and this, rather than at firsthand, is the very best way to learn it—such is the considered opinion of every legless or eyeless Veteran, as of every Royal Advisor.)
It remained for them to make certain of their rear—not of the Army’s, but of the Commanders’ own—for it must not appear that they had formed a strategy upon the word of a turncoat and escaped parricide, who had traded his information for succor. No! He must be one who gave his all for the triumph of his Nation—a Patriot—a Hero unspotted. To that end the French soldier (as he had been) and Privateer (as he would not acknowledge) and murderer (which he deny’d hotly) became in a moment a British soldier, and a junior officer, by a field promotion more rapid than even the Military Surgeon might have dreamed. The Surgeon, at bottom a good fellow, was almost as pleased by the advancement of his patient as if it were his own, and shone himself in its reflected light.
‘We
‘Of course,’ said Ali,—‘That is, if all that I have provided be as it seems, and not a figment, or a delusion—as I trow I cannot entirely say with confidence. And now, though wine would be most welcome, for I thirst, and fain would rest, I shall mix mine with water; my head spins already, and I stumble without any drop taken.’
At this the Military Surgeon shook his head in soldierly dismay, at the prospect that any potation whatever or whenever should have any ‘allaying Tiber’ introduced—and so gave his charge his arm, to help him on.
In the following days the French through their spyglasses observed the English move their baggage to the rear, as though in preparation for a retreat, and when they issued from their strongholds and made display of force, to tempt the craven English to battle, the English did nothing, but only drew away like a Maiden before an importunate Suitor, like Clarissa before Lovelace. Even when the French generals forgot their Rule-books, and spread their forces too widely upon the hills before the City, the English forbore to attack—and then the French were certain of an easy victory—until too late. The night before the battle, a war broke out in Heaven, and Jove hammered the armies below as they had planned to hammer each other, and some two dozen valiant Englishmen were killed by lightning before the enemy could do the same. Indeed it is inconvenient when foul weather spoils our plans of slaughter and mayhem, and especially inconvenient when his Iron Lordship has forbid his officers to carry umbrellas in such circumstances, as suggestive too much of the unmanly. But the next day dawned as clear as could be wanted, and the guns belched white smoke against blue sky, and the Cavalry officers jingled gaily as they cantered by—the common soldiers cheered them mightily, and neither wondered why.
What would have become of Ali if his information had been wrong—or if the wrong conclusions had been drawn from it by others—or if any of a thousand untoward turns had been taken by Fate and Fortune on the way to victory—need not be thought on, for it is universally known that the French in their impatient pride fell upon the English that day at the village of Arapiles, with all the grandeur, and all the success, of a hoary Eagle fallen upon a Steam-engine. From that day to this no battle his Iron Lordship has fought has been declared more perfect, more elegant, as though a battle might resemble an axiom of Euclid’s, or a parallelogram. ’Twas in any case a victory rapturously received by his Countrymen far away, who had had little news of this character to feast upon in those months. The papers were loud—the Opposition silent; his Lordship was made a Marquess, given 100000£, and, what is more than all this, the Archbishop of Canterbury (at the Regent’s command) composed and offered up a Prayer of Thanksgiving to the God of Battles, calling especial Divine attention to the victorious Lord. An Extraordinary Gazette was published, in which our Ali was mentioned, and commended, among the many other contributors to the victory—his name upon that list was noted, in wonder and amazement, by many who knew his tale.
So in the bright summer, when the French Eagles and Standards were brought home, and the lights of London lit (and every unlit window stoned by the patriotic Mob), Ali came to England’s shores and England’s Capital again, but now a Hero, accompanied by the Military Surgeon—who had won, by his part in the action, his heart’s desire, a post in London—and thereupon gave himself up to the King’s officers, to be tried (and most likely hanged ) for the crime he had not committed!
APERSPICACIOUS READER (should my tale have any such) may here object, that he has nowhere heard or read of any such circumstances attendant upon the famous Battle of Salamanca as are herein described, nor of the subsequent celebrity of one of its (purported) chief Actors, nor his generous commendation by Commander and Crown, nor the particulars which produced it—to which I reply, that I have for authority the then British Consul to Spain, the admirable and Honourable John Hookham Frere, Esq., a man of proven probity, who certainly would not deign to invent a fantastical tale, nor even to embroider a plain one.
NOTES FOR THE 7TH CHAPTER
the late war: When Byron travelled in Spain in the year 1809, the British had just begun their incursions into the Iberian peninsula; he sets this adventure later in the war, well after he himself was a visitor there. I note that he places the date of the Battle of Salamanca (1812) ‘not a decade ago’, which while not as specific as might be hoped, sets the writing of this part of the story some time before 1822. Late in 1821, he left Ravenna, to take up residence in Pisa, whence he would later sail to Greece. I believe the MS of this tale to have been worked on, in desultory fashion, from the time of Lord Byron’s residence in Switzerland following the separation from Lady Byron, until some time during his residence in Ravenna, and to have been lost (or abstracted) during the move thence. But all this is speculation.
not yet Duke: That Ld. B. thought it possible to publish a novel in which the Duke of Wellington figures as a character, in which he wins one of his most famous victories in part due to the informations of one who is a turncoat, and is moreover entirely imaginary, suggests to my mind that by the time these incidents were described Ld. B. had decided that the book could not in this form be published, and so he was free to write what he liked, and the whole could then be consigned to the flames, or to the future—but not to the Public, as it then existed. This fact may also account for why, as far as I can tell from his biographers, he made no mention of its composition, even though his beginning, or continuing, or finishing, various other works, is talked of continually in his letters to his publishers and others.
umbrellas: What I read in Napier’s Peninsular War tells me that Ld. B. was essentially correct about the movements of the troops, the course of the fighting, the effects of the weather, and even the Umbrellas of the officers. He was proud of the correctness of his facts, I am told, and liked to get right the small details of a ship’s rigging, or a foreign government’s composition, or a people’s dress or habits. It is not a large virtue, and he did not always exercise it. But it is one I own myself, and likewise do not use at all times as I might. I do not use it as I might.
Frere: John Hookham Frere was indeed the British Consul in Spain at the time of the Battle of Salamanca. He had earlier held that post when Lord Byron travelled across Spain in 1809, on his way to Gibraltar to take ship for Greece. Why Ld. B. chuses to introduce this personage into his fiction at this juncture is unknown to me, as I am unaware of any further connexion between the two.
From: “Smith”
To: “Thea”
Subject: The Childe
I never thought I’d be doing this. I’m staying up at night trying to read Byron’s poetry. Georgiana happens to have a big volume of it, in this bookcase full of leather-bound books I don’t think she’s looked at much, if ever. I started in on his first big poem, Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, the one that was such a huge and instant success that he “woke up and found himself famous,” or whatever it was. Well, it’s pretty funny. Read this (yeah I know, but read it). It’s a scene early on when Harold’s traveling in Spain and goes to a bullfight:
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and Expectation mute
Gapes round the silent Circle’s peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:
Here, there, he points his threatening front to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.
Now isn’t that exactly like those scenes in old cartoons set at bullfights, where Bugs Bunny or Daffy D
S
From: “Smith”
To: [email protected]
Subject: Ada Notes
Lee:
I am working through the notes that Ada made for the novel. I sent you some scanned pages. They’re very hard to read (esp. as digital files, maybe you gave up on them). I wonder if she was stoned part of the time. But I am trying to understand what the burned book might have been about. Here are some things I already know are (or were) supposedly in it, or important to it somehow. Albania. Greece. Scotland. Byron’s house at Newstead. Thomas Moore. A zombie (!). An Irish lord named Fitzgerald, who was a real person (?). The battle of Salamanca (Spain). The Duke of Wellington. Somebody named Frere (?). None of it makes much sense to me, but it wouldn’t, would it, without the book itself.
I don’t know why I’m obsessing on this. She spent a long time on it, and she was dying, and I feel like I could make it worth it. But if it’s gone I can’t, can I.
I will be sending you all the Ada notes as I transcribe them. Tell me if you learn anything from them.