by John Crowley
NOTES FOR THE 6TH CHAPTER
Herculean Negro: Readers who look into these notes before completing the story will not yet know this figure to be a man of the West Indies, and a victim, or beneficiary, of that infusion of artificial life which, in the superstition of the Caribbean lands, can turn a corpse into a deathless though soulless labourer. (Who has re-animated him, if that is indeed his condition, will eventually be revealed!) This weird belief was first brought before English eyes in a book by Robert Southey on the history of Brazil, which may be the source from which Lord Byron drew the legend; if so, the connexion is a strange one, for Southey was a bête-noire of my father’s, and his life & politics a source of endless inspiration for his wit and sarcasm—repaid, be it said, with the then Poet Laureate’s fulminations and anathemata against him and all his pomps and works. All that is old; they are both dead; yet I remember me, how Southey once wished to join with the poet Coleridge to create a colony of perfect felicity upon the banks of the Susquehanna, in America: and so did I, when I was but a child.
I believe that the phenomenon of the zombi is another aspect of that Hypnotic Sleep elsewhere explored and described in this novel in such farsighted fashion: it seems to me that persons placed by clever masters or powerful Witch-doctors into that state, might appear to others to be both dead and alive.
2. Miss Edge-worth: Ld. B. was by his own estimate a prodigious reader of novels, and claimed at one time to have read five thousand—though Mr Hobhouse says this is impossible—that Lord Byron counted a book as read if he had but looked briefly into it. He had also little compunction in respect of exaggeration, a fault I have shared, and was punished for as a child, when the thing exaggerated was not of the approved kind—as filial piety, or religious impulses, or grief at the sufferings of others who had claim on my compassion. I can well believe that Ld. B. read widely in fiction; he had no airs, where literature was concerned, and thought none the less of his own work, that many readers delighted in it.
3. Lord Edward Fitzgerald: The tale here interpolated is a true one—the Irish patriot, slain in the uprising of 1798, did have such a black servant, and had these adventures in America. The tale is told in the biography of that Lord by the ubiquitous Mr Thomas Moore, who can at times seem unnervingly like a shadow cast by Lord Byron, without whom he would not exist—but this is an unfair aspersion on the name of the author of Lallah Rookh and many lovely songs. Nevertheless it is true that Ld. B., long before he knew of Moore, or Irish matters in any way at first hand, became enamoured of the chivalrous figure (as he perceived it) of Fitzgerald, and declared at the time of the Irish rebellion of 1798, that had he been a grown man, he would have become an English Lord Edward Fitzgerald. Lady Byron has granted me that tit-bit from the store of anecdotes told her by her late husband.
No doubt it was during his later long friendship with Mr Moore that Ld. B. learned the story here related. His reasons for telling this tale within his own is less clear. Perhaps it is only the vision of America which drew him to include it. I know not.
4. Madame de Genlis: The Comtesse de Genlis was the tutor of the children of the Duc de Chartres, and at least one of her children is now generally supposed to have been his. She is the well-known author of Madame de Maintenon, Memoires, &c. Like so many of his generation, Ld. B. professed to despise the ‘bluestocking’ lady writer, the ‘crowd of scribbling women’ held up so often in his time to contempt. Madame de Staël was excepted by him, and I suspect that, in this as in so much else, his easy mockery is less felt than merely assumed, and unexamined.
5. Buonaparte: This is Ld. B.’s habitual spelling. As a boy he was much taken with Napoleon, but like many of his coevals, he was finally disappointed in the apparent liberator of Europe, who became a Dictator worse than any he overthrew, and instead of removing Kings from the world, merely set their crowns upon the heads of his own incompetent relatives. Lord Byron’s poems and letters are rich in allusions to this cynosure of his youthful fancy, and anyone doubting the complexity of the poet’s mind, or the subtlety of his judgement, need only assemble them, and see how variously, without contradiction, Napoleon is pictured—as dream of glory, or of justice and hope; as welcome affront to the settled world; as figure of comical self-deception; and as blood-stained tyrant. I for one would trade all Byron’s verse dramas for one on the subject of Napoleon.
6. a ship’s deck: There was nothing he loved so much as to be on a ship, both leaving behind what he no longer wanted, or what no longer wanted him, and going on to what he knew not. For only that moment he could love again what he had lost, or discarded; and was not yet disappointed in what he would have. I was among the left. It was not altogether his choice, yet it was his doing. He would not deny it, if I could ask him; but I cannot, and that is his doing, too—and Death’s.
• SEVEN •
In which a famous Battle is reported upon, tho’ not as it has been
UPON THE PLAINS OF eastern Spain—that blood-boltered land upon which, not a decade ago, the powers contested so hotly—the ancient city of Salamanca rises within its stout walls, lifting above all the dome of an ancient and much-lauded University, where long the arts of Peace were taught. Among the allied forces who came to lay siege to the city during the late war, there was a certain British Lieutenant, Brevet Staff Surgeon to a brigade of the Portuguese army. The brigade was largely officered by other Englishmen, who held their Peninsular allies somewhat in contempt—no doubt believing they had good reason—and from it the Lieutenant was ever seeking to be removed by promotion to a loftier sphere.
These allies, British, Spanish, and Portuguese, had, after years of discouragement and reversal, begun at last successfully to drive the French from the Iberian lands, and were now arrived at a pause before Salamanca. The French did not possess Salamanca, but held upon the farther heights three strong forts—one a Convent, whence the nuns had fled, most well in time too—and, from batteries rigged upon their walls, they dropt balls at will within the City. Below, the Commander of the army of Allies—not yet Duke, but already Iron—look’d deep-browed upon Salamanca—which was pictured, as well, on the maps his officers unrolled before him, just as it was seen by the carrion-crows patiently waiting on the hot winds above. A battle was daily expected, but none knew what the French general might do—nor what he thought the English general might do. Meantime in the pretty town the French shot fell in the streets, and when it fell the ladies and gentlemen fled indoors, but came out again soon enough—like birds shoo’d by a crone’s handclaps from the corn—and resumed their promenading—their flirting, and their Commerce, where the two were not the same—and their amusements.
Our Military Surgeon (whom I think you will have already forgotten) was often among those tasting the pleasures of the town, until he was ordered away to his Regiment again, to prepare his Hospital and staff for the work ahead—the sawing-off of limbs, the sewing shut of wounds, the plucking-out of musket-balls, the closing of the eyelids of the dead—if indeed this office be commonly done by surgeons in war—I happily do not know. As yet, however, he was busiest in other matters, those that consume the greater share of every officer’s store of time, which is to say the finding and claiming of the best spot to pitch a Tent, the furnishing and provisioning of the same—for this requires a constant traffic in favours, paid and received—and the assembling of comforts. Lieutenant Upward—a Welshman of the Marches, and a handsome and gentle fellow—had a fine camp-bed, from whose stead his sword was hung with picturesque negligence; he had a chest of drawers cunningly made—a spirit-lamp—and a netting against mousquitoes, a treasure above price in a clime where an ell of gauze may mark the difference between Ease and Misery, unless upon one’s skin, as upon mine own, the beast hath no power of puncture. Lieutenant Upward had also a Spanish lad, to assemble and prepare his suppers, and pour his wine, and see to his Uniform, and polish his Boots. This small person was of that exquisite colouration found in no other land—call it not Olive, for that is too dr
ab—hair darker than chocolate, yet not black, and eyes the same. Even more pleasing and convenient for the Surgeon, I trow, was the fact—he supposed it to be his secret, tho’ ’twas well known to his fellow-officers, and a source of mirth to them—that the lad was not a lad at all, but a maid—rather she had been a maid, when first she came into his service—a señorita, apple of the Surgeon’s eye, chiefest ornament of his small estate upon the Spanish earth. This señorita, after many slights and neglects which her Officer was ignorant of having inflicted, and conscious of her own worth too, which she set at a different rate than he, had decided that this night she would change her breetches for petticoats, and seek her fortune elsewhere: but of this the Military Surgeon, as of so much else, had no idea at all.
That morning, however, even as dark-browed Dolores (for that was her name) brooded upon her present wrongs, and future prospects, news were brought to her Master’s tent: a man was come into camp, wounded unto death—as it seemed—and in the dress of a Spanish peasant—but speaking no Spanish, indeed claiming to be a British subject, though more resembling a Moor than Dolores herself. Where—she was asked—was the Lieutenant Surgeon?
He was found beneath the shade of one of the few trees flourishing thereabouts, seated upon an empty caisson, deep in thought. When not occupied by his medical duties, or the more demanding ones attendant upon advancing his Career—or visiting the Monuments his army passed (those it was not, out of military necessity, compelled to destroy)—or attending Balls, whereat ladies of rank might be met—Lieutenant Upward liked to sit before a view, a pen in one hand, and his chin in the other; for he was of a literary bent, and hoped, after not too long a gestation, to birth a Romance, or an Epic—he cared not which.
Hastening to the regimental hospital—a place he liked not to linger in, without necessity—he found already brought there the man in Spanish smock, who had ceased by then to speak in any language, and indeed almost to breathe. His wound was not deep, but it was old, and had been made not by a ball, but by a blade. ‘Carry him to my tent,’ said he, ‘and I shall follow after,’ for well he knew that the worst of all places for a man in a medical crisis was a regimental hospital. When he had gathered up those tools and medicaments he thought necessary, and forestalled the questions of his Superior (who put in, just then, an inconvenient appearance), he proceeded to his tent, where he found the young fellow already put in his own bed, and his own Dolores pressing a cloth soaked in his own eau-de-Cologne upon his hot brow: nor was she, at the Surgeon’s suggestion, fain to retire. He was about to upbraid the wench in proper form—summoning to his aid the small Anglo-Saxon vocabulary she had acquired, most of it however pretty pertinent—when the man upon his bed began to speak. And indeed it was English in which he spoke—then French, which the Lieutenant knew—and another language, unknown to either of them who bent to the chappy lips and fluttering lids of the man to hear. ‘Look not upon me,’ says he, in a stark whisper, and then, ‘I have done thee no wrong—no—pass away, or I will—I will—!’ Yet what he would, they learned not, for his rolling eye and tossing head now seemed filled with other visions. ‘Rangez votre epée’—so cried he, as to an opponent, and held his hand before him—‘Je ne me battrai avec vous—Non! Non!—Vous vous trompez—Vous avez mal compris!’ Whereupon he fell again into feverish incoherence, and only an application of brandy to his lips helped him to recover—with a great shudder he half-arose from his litter, and cried aloud, ‘The BEAR!’ He gazed about himself, yet seemed not to see the Lieutenant or his servant, but others, elsewhere—his eyes were hot, and clouded—his breast rose and fell as though he fled some horror, or was in its grasp. Then with a groan he dropt upon the bed, putting his hand to his clothes as though to search a wound—yet it was not that side upon which he had been wounded. After a day of care, however, his fever abated, and he breathed more easily—slept—and though both the Lieutenant and his Dolores (for curiosity, and something else perhaps, had kept her from decamping, as she had planned) very much desired to question him, and learn his story, yet they would not have him killed in the telling—and so held their questions, till the man himself began to speak, in more rational terms.
So the story was told, though haltingly, of Ali’s journeys and adventures—his true name—the reasons for his flight—his service aboard a Smuggler’s vessel—his suborning (with all the rest of the crew who were not Irish, and thus not Allies of the French) into the French Army, and his service therein as a private soldier. Indeed the story was not told so plainly—nor in such good order—for there was incident aplenty that Ali would have been glad to leave out (as every Tale-teller knows he ought) and yet was compelled by Sense and his listeners to advert to, and include (as many a Tale-teller will).
‘I served unwillingly,’ said Ali, and the Military Surgeon opined that there were many among the British Army who might say the same, if certain they were not overheard. ‘Yet I served. Many months indeed I wore blue, and marched and countermarched, wheeled and counterwheeled, with my fellow private soldiers en masse, and found them to be no different from the men of any nation, give or take a Vice, or a Virtue.’
At this he look’d into the dark eyes of the lad beside him, whose hand he had clutched tightly, as though it were a life-line holding him to the Buoy of continued existence; and found his gaze returned, with interest too. ‘I pray you, Sir,’ said Ali, ‘a little water,’ and Dolores swiftly supplied the same, and tenderly held the cup to his lips.
‘But, Sir,’ said the Military Surgeon with some impatience, ‘tell now how you came before this City, so near to the army of your own people, if such they be, and what you did then. It is inconvenient for you to be forever beginning your tale again.’
‘My knowledge of the French language was noted by my first sergeants,’ said Ali, ‘and also of English; and when I was recommended for these skills to a higher officer, it was further observed that I was a gentleman, and well-spoken enough—for the tricks and traits that count toward this impression are ones I have learned—indeed, have been schooled in, and by masters!—and so I was brevetted to serve as aide to a Chef de bataillon, a Captain you would say, I suppose, who was soon sent to this land by the Emperor—one who even now is commanding his battalion before this city—but no! Even now—Ah no! No more! Ask me no more!’—and he turned his face from them, and for a time would not speak, though his Audience impatiently fidgeted through this Entr’acte.
Through that day and the night, between the attentions of the Military Surgeon, and the gentler ones of Dolores, who would not be dismissed from her patient’s side, Ali completed his tale. The Captain to whom he was attached, he related, was accompanied by a Household, consisting of his young wife, and a female companion, and the furnishings they required, including Quarters sufficient for privacy—to provide all which, said Ali, was the chief study and most constant occupation of the Captain, who had stretched his credit to the thinnest to have a Spouse at his side on campaign. Ali’s duties were largely to further this business, for the which he was not much liked among the more martial, and single, officers; but his duties brought him often together with the Captain’s wife, to answer her needs, and arrange her comforts. Not much time passed before this lady, who was as beautiful as she was proud, grew to depend upon Ali—and to expand the scope of his duties—and the intimacy of their meetings. Would he not help her to untie this—or tie up that—or read with her this book of English poems—or make her coffee, as he alone could do properly? Not all Ali’s evasions—arising from respect, and Honour, and (above all) Fear—could preserve him from Madame’s attentions, whose character became every day more evident, even to my untaught hero. There came a night when, for the meagrest of reasons, she summoned him to her private quarters; Ali knew—and knew that she knew—her husband was long at a staff-meeting. Then indeed there were no more excuses—no parcels—no Books—no draperies to be hung—nor Vermin to be routed—only herself, and unconditionally.
The night was warm, and scented
with the orange, and the hibiscus—the Lady’s cheek, hot, and coloured—the scent of her person the more deranging to his senses. Ali, being unused to such a siege as the Lady now laid, capitulated in a moment, hardly knowing he did so, nor upon what terms. Indeed she whispered, ‘Non, non’—but the coin was counterfeit, and bought nothing—nor was meant to do—and that moment quickly came when caution is discarded—with other and more material obstacles—and thus he and the Lady were unmistakably en déshabillé when of a sudden the curtain was torn aside, and the Captain (whose approaching tread they had not heard) stood looking upon them with fury, his hand upon his sword-hilt.
‘What then did she do?’ asked the Military Surgeon. ‘Surprized, and guilty as she was?’
‘She cried out upon me,’ said Ali, ‘that I had offered her violence, and that in fear she had not resisted me, lest I make good my threats!’
‘She wept?’
‘She wept,’ said Ali. ‘Turned her face from me in horror—shame, too—all which seemed as genuine as—as her earlier and different feelings—for I think fear may be pretended to, and alarm—but not such loathing as she showed.’
Here he paused, in deep confusion, as though what he thought, he could not say. ‘No, it is impossible,’ said he then. ‘No woman would conceive of such a thing—and yet I cannot shake the conviction, that she knew very well her husband would return, and when—and still she offered the freedom of her Quarters to me—and all else. When indeed the Captain appeared, and found me there, where she had invited me—and I saw his face suffused in rage, and his weapon drawn even as I struggled to put myself to rights—well—methought I saw a sort of communication fly between them, whose nature I knew not—and yet—and yet—’