Lord Byron's Novel: The Evening Land

by John Crowley

  Now the drink flows as water in that land does not—all freely and overmuch—now the deepest guzzlers totter and sway—some old ones already wrapt in Oblivion—but others, in thrall to the laughing demon in wine, dance in abandon. The youths whirl with the speeding music, and some lift their shirts even to the brown paps, to show a danse du ventre. One grey-headed bright-eyed fellow, his beard flecked with foam, is so inflamed as to advance with felonious intent upon them, but confused as to which he would seize—they avoid this satyr with laughter, let him fall to his knees. Soon those not whirling are spewing or sleeping; and even the dancers themselves begin to fall like ninepins—and in the uproar that follows, which draws all eyes, Ali makes his sign to Iman.

  In silence they slip separately from the throng—no one takes notice—they draw away their horses—till they are beyond the circle of light the fading fire makes, where they take hands for a breath’s duration, mount, and in a moment they are gone—silent—vanished, as ghosts vanish upon the sound of the morning-bell!

  THUS THE TALE is ended—love and daring in two souls conjoin’d, and two swift horses, and all’s told. Where they may go—how live—how love, against the world’s conspiring—how grow old, and still be as they were—none of that is, as a usual rule, to be recounted. Yet if this tale is to be like life—which, I have hoped, it may a little be—tho’ perhaps more filled with interesting Incident, and less dimmed by doubts, and rankling wants unmet, hours of Boredom, &c., &c.—then in one way at least it might—and that’s to come to no end, for that is the way of Life, to begin (or continue) one tale, even as another runs out—even as wave follows wave, and wave returns on wave.

  Therefore observe now upon the heights of the bare knobs that look down upon the Sea, where a man of no ordinary shape leads a weary mount—now and again he stops, alert to sounds that are not those of the unpeopled hills—eagle’s shriek, or wind’s moan—but he hears none, and so goes on. He knows well for whom he seeks, for he has followed their progress, though unknown to them—he lately fell behind, that he might not himself be discovered, and now has lost his way—yet sure he is that somewhere nearby, in a Cave of these heights, they whom he follows have taken refuge—as would he, he thinks, were he in their case. And now as he rounds the sharp flank of a vasty yellow slab of stone he sees what he was sure he heard: a horse, as weary as his own, at a dark cave’s mouth: and there, in the hot shade of that same slab, out of view, he sits him down—as though he there kept a Guard over them—or waited to catch them as they emerged—it could not be known which—and, silent and still though he sits, he cannot hear them within.

  What say they, then, those weary ones, who have fled so far, and still know themselves to be in danger—who lie near each other on the Cave’s cool floor, and take each other’s hands? Why does she weep, now, after riding so many miles with him, matching him hardship for hardship, without complaint?

  ‘I cannot tell thee why,’ she whispers to him, in answer to his plea. ‘Ask me no more.’

  ‘Is it the wrong we have done? I say we have done none.’

  ‘We have not done wrong—no, we have not.’

  ‘Do you wish, now, I had not returned—that all things might now be as they were—that I had not come to disturb all?’

  Iman answered nothing to this, but arose from her place beside him, to sit at a distance from him—she lowered her eyes, and from the grey earth took up a handful of dust—that dust such as we all name our first Ancestor, and our own last State—and let it pass through her fingers unregarded. ‘I cannot tell,’ said she, ‘if the greatest grief to me, was that you were reft from me when we were children—or if a greater grief would have been to have you stay by me.’

  ‘Why say you so? Did I not do all I could that you might be mine when we were of age? When I was taken by the Pacha’s horseman I heard you cry out—I know my own heart cried—therefore why say you so?’

  ‘My Ali,’ said she, and lifted her eyes again, all pity and trepidation. ‘There is a thing you know not—one fatal thing—that I came to know as I lived on there alone—one thing you might have come to know too, by thought, if you had bent your thought that way—a thing that was long buried, but that I pluckt out, and then could not put away from me again.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Ali said, though her eyes warned him that it were better he did not.

  ‘Know you, my dearest, onliest, how we two came to these lands, and this people?’

  ‘For myself,’ Ali said, ‘I know to-day. I did not then. I know that my father was an Englishman, who ravish’d the wife of a Bey of this clan, and sired myself. My mother was slain by the Bey, and I sent away.’

  ‘ ’Tis just so,’ said Iman. ‘And I too along with thee, to go whither thou went, and live where thou lived’st. Ali! That poor woman, thy mother, had not one only child! I was her daughter, as you were her son!’

  The dark of that cave is relieved by but a single light, Sun that through an aperture of stone in the deep backward casts a narrow Beam, which over the hours has crossed the rough walls, and now looks directly upon the two, two unmoving and apart—and it may be that what she has told him, he knew—for that aged Herdsman had long ago so said to him—and though he had refused to understand, perhaps in truth he had—and what he knows now, he had always known.

  ‘Tell me which is the greater sin,’ Ali said. ‘That you break your vow of Chastity, and lie with a man—or that you lie with your own brother?’

  ‘Both are fatal. Do the one, what matters the other?’

  ‘Then come to me—as you fled with me.’

  ‘We shall lie in Eblis, then, if anywhere.’

  ‘If it be with you, I care not.’

  ‘Nor I!’

  Love may claim much—it may not with perfect right claim all—so this Tale of mine hath firmly asserted, and supplied good examples thereof—and here the last. No love such as they were ready to lose all the world for can the world allow—for that which was perforce commanded to Adam’s children was forbid ever after to theirs—never ask why, for it is inscribed upon the fabric of Earth and Sky and the substance of our mortality, as the Ten were upon Stone—so it is—and so it must ever be; and the Fates (in the form of men, and women too, armed with pens as with swords, and guns as with Law-books) will not rest, till any instance be erased, as if it had not been. Vide: Toward that cave, from whose precincts that odd Watcher (before noted) has slipt away, there now proceed over the hills certain other men, mounted men, well-armed, fired by Outrage and Indignation and the spirit of Vengeance, who have, unresting, pursued the fading trail of the sinners, and now make close approach. Only their firing of weapons into the air, to alert one another to their whereabouts, reveals them to the two within the cave—for the pursuers knew not how close they were—and Ali and Iman mount, two upon one horse, for the horse that Iman took for hers at the first was abandoned in the flight, unable to proceed. They had intended to make for the Coast, and thence to that port where first Ali set foot on his return—but their Pursuers are several, and the pursued are driven before them, away from their destination, though Seaward still. He urging that steed—she with arms about him, cheek upon his shoulder—a day and a night, with but little rest—and they have eluded Pursuit! The Fates are after all not omnipotent—or perhaps now and then they change their minds—and think to let one caught soul go—as an Angler might, who need not, but may—for it more gratifies him, and flatters his Power, to give life, as well as take it.

  So the Sea is in sight, though no human settlement near, and wide and blue as it is, it is both escape and final obstacle. And—though I have just asserted otherwise—there is in fact one strong fellow of their clan who has not fallen behind, given up and turned back—who all unnoticed has come closer—tireless—silent as a cat—and as Ali and Iman stand there upon the shore, clinging bewildered and outwearied each to other, he creeps through the grasses toward them.

  ‘Ali,’—so speaks she, hanging upon his shoulder—and the word, as she
would have chosen, could she chuse, was her last: for that single curséd man of infinite Righteousness has now stood up, but a few yards off, and has put the brace of his Mousquet in the sand, and taken his aim—Ali sees not, till all at once he feels his beloved give way within his arms, as though struck a fearsome blow by some invisible foe—and only then does he hear the shot, sound following after sight. As an arch may instantly tumble at the removal of its keystone—a watchtower at the harbour’s side slide all at once beneath the water that has undermined it—a flock of doves turn in mid-air all at the same moment, to descend—so Ali in that instant knew that every hope, a lifetime’s worth, all the store Heaven had reserved or ever would reserve for him, was gone—indeed, had never been but a snare! He let fall the lifeless girl—unable to support her—laid her as gently as he could upon the earth—and sees, upon the dune, her Slayer now preparing another shot, as coolly as may be—for his work’s unfinished! Ali steps toward him, arms open and empty, and awaits the shot meant for himself—impatient for it—and indeed the fellow has now readied himself,—but now instead of firing he turns, for he has heard a sound from behind him, below the dune’s height. What is it he sees? He lifts his gun, and turns it away from Ali, and toward that lone Spy we have before observed—yet did not understand. It is he! His horse climbing with great persistence the shifting sand, he has nearly reached the bemused Gunman, and he has a long Pistol in his hand, which without a moment’s hesitation he discharges fully in the other’s face, propelling him feet over head down the slope—dead!

  All this Ali has observed unmoving—unmoving, he watches the horseman pick his way down to the beach toward him—and sees something of the familiar in his shape—which is not as other men’s—but is a shape that Ali knows, that has haunted his imaginings—unless this be only a further Apparition, despite the actuality of the dead Albanian display’d upon the sand, and the snorting of the near-spent steed. All this arising within him, as water or oil comes to seethe, Ali at last draws from his belt his sword—and, as the mounted man approaches, he rushes to him, drags him from the horse’s back, throws him with superhuman strength upon the shingle, and lays the edge of his sword upon the Stranger’s throat—no stranger to him now.

  ‘Why, what do you do?’ says that one calmly enough—and the voice is the voice Ali has expected. ‘Have I not slain your enemy, and am I to be repaid thus?’

  ‘Upon thy life, tell me now who thou art, and why thou hast pursued me over half the world!’

  ‘Tell me you know not,’ said the one beneath his sword. ‘Deny me if you are able.’

  ‘I know you not,’ said Ali, ‘but as the Shadow that I cannot avoid, who dogs my steps, who hates me, who seeks my ruin, who has now saved my life—when that is the greatest harm he may do me! I say I know you not! ’

  ‘I am Lord Sane,’ said the other.

  ‘Do not dare to mock me,’ cried Ali. ‘I saw him dead. You are not he.’

  ‘Not he—but his heir.’

  ‘How! His heir! What claim have you? Prove it and you shall have all! Think you I care for the name?’

  ‘Put up your sword. You do not desire my death. I tell you I am Lord Sane: For I am his son, your brother, and the elder.’

  At this, he knew not how or why, a conviction broke upon Ali’s mind, that the man told naught but the Truth—that he looked into the eyes of his brother. Still he moved not, nor relented—the edge of his blade still against the other’s throat.

  ‘Release me,’ said that one—his brother. ‘There are sad obsequies to make now. I will aid you in them, if you will have my aid. When those are done, you shall have my tale. It is one you may profit from—and if not—then kill me after—as Scheherezade was destin’d to be killed—though my tale’s no fable.’

  Ali in despair arose—he threw his sword upon the sands. True, true it was—he desired not this stranger’s death. If the man was mad, or inhabited by an evil spirit, or if he spoke the truth—Ali cared not—he cared for nothing save for the figure lying upon the rocks, her heedless limbs uncradled, her face still and pale whence the light had fled. From his own limbs the strength drained, and he fell upon his knees beside her, and laid himself across her stiffening breast. The knot tied within his spirit, tied by his father in the beginning of his days of life, seemed likely now to strangle him, deprive him of breath, so that—and it was all he desired—his starved and desiccated heart should break at last.

  ‘Look,’ said his foe, or friend—‘see here, upon this Strand, the dry limbs of fallen trees, and the ribs of some stove vessel—the harsh Thorn-bush—let us pile them together, for a Pyre. Is this not the manner of your people?’

  Ali spoke not in return, and yet he rose. ‘Come,’ said the other, ‘while day is still light, and word of what has passed here has not reached the places of men. Put your sharp sword to this use—bring down yon thorn-bush, throw it upon the pile!’

  So he did—yet still without a word spoken. The two laboured through the day, until they had built a place for Iman to lie; Ali wrapt her in her man’s capote, and then in his own too, even her face and hands, for he would not look upon them consumed by flame. Around her bier they threw the grey and twisted Drift-wood plentiful there, and the thorns that Ali cut. Side by side they laboured, until the mass was tall, so that the fire would be high, and quick. Then the other produced from his pack a tinder-box, and in a short time produced a blaze of sea-grass and twigs, which Ali would not permit him to thrust within the pyre—that duty he did, with a loud cry, that was all the mourning that he would make for her—and indeed his heart had broken, and he knew it not, for he was neither slain, nor blinded, nor relieved: but thus it is with hearts, despite the Poets’ claims—they will go on beating in our breasts, and burst not with our Griefs, and yet still lie broken within us, never to be healed.

  From eve to midnight they stood or knelt upon the sand. The towering blaze was seen from a village nearby, and a few brave souls came by night to see what was the matter, and why there was a fire by the sea—but having seen, and seen the two still figures there, withdrew in fear and awe, with signs against the Evil One. At need the two piled the fire high again, until the inferno at its centre had done all it must, and there was but Ash, wherein the ruddy embers shimmered in heat, trembling with what seemed life, and was not. When the night was at an end and all was black, all consumed, all spent, the two mourners—celebrants—attendants—howsoever they may be named who have performed such ceremonies, and done such labours—turned from the remains, and faced the Sea, over which the Sun would rise—if it would—and they shared what bread and drink they had.

  ‘Then tell me,’ Ali said, ‘all that you have to tell, as you promised. There is no better use for this day, I think. And when you have done, I shall part from you, I hope forever.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the other; and so he began the tale that the following Chapter will recount.

  NOTES TO THE 12TH CHAPTER

  I know not now if I may be spared even to complete these notes I cannot look back All this month I have done little but lie upon my back, and when that provided no relief, I have haunted my house and roamed the halls and stairs, seeking I know not what by way of succor. My old friend Opium has not been as faithful as once he was, and I am afraid to make too great demands upon him. There is so much left to do when I close my eyes I see letters & numbers, as when retiring after a long evening of cards one sees only cards pips faces meaningless I want the sea sleep begin again upon the morrow

  Alps: It was not two years after my father’s death that I was taken abroad by my mother’s constant companions, three ladies whom it was my pleasure to term ‘the Furies’, for the intensity of their attention to me, and the incessant care with which they watched over me, and reported to my mother any sign of ancestral weakness, or moral incontinence. I was then eleven years old. We travelled first to Switzerland, to the lake my father always called Lake Leman in the old-fashioned way, on whose shores he had lived after the separation fro
m his wife—though I did not know that, I knew nothing, hardly knew then that he had lived and died. Now I look back to see myself, collecting stones and botanizing upon those shores—for it was from childhood my delight to know things, and learn how the world and its parts are made—and I know that I was near where he walked, and it is almost as though time doubles, and I am where he once was, and yet we are together.

  There is a Villa, quite near where we were then residing (myself and the Furies), and it is the place where Ld. B. and the Shelleys once gathered, after Ld. B. had left England. I may even have seen this place as I later wandered nearby, and yet not known it. In that house, if we may believe Mrs Shelley in the Preface to her romance Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus, the three friends each began a tale in prose. Byron’s was believed to have been abandoned. I cannot know if this present tale be that one. Perhaps the Future, if it possess this tale (as I hope to make certain it shall), may adduce evidence to show it is the same he started then, and hid away. So much was hidden, and yet what is hidden is not destroyed, while what is patent may be.

  The reign of that Pacha: Ali Pasha, for whom this ‘Pacha’ is meant, was assassinated by a Turkish agent in 1822. That Byron does not allude to this, suggests it had not yet taken place when these pages were written.

  Amazons: The Amazons of legend are placed by most authors in Scythia. Euhemerus was the Greek who taught that the stories of Gods and divine beings arose merely from exaggerated reports of the doings of heroic kings and warriors in a long-ago time. I know not if Byron’s account here of the practices of the Albanians be factual, or his own invention; his companion upon his Albanian journey (which was brief, for all that he later made of it) was the present Lord Broughton, who has not responded as yet to my request for information upon this point.