The Monsters

by Dorothy Hoobler

  Now, the man who sat for the portrait of the Vampyre was to claim his own.

  Allegra’s nursemaid Elise brought the child back to Byron’s house in Venice after she had spent the summer of 1818 with Claire and the Shelleys. Byron was living a wilder, more dissolute life than ever. He was writing the first canto of a long poem, DonJuan, which would be his most outrageous work, so far beyond the bounds of propriety that his closest friends urged him not to publish it. Having seen, and been inspired by, Mozart’s opera Don Giovanni, Byron knew of the “catalog aria” in which Leporello ticks off the names of his master’s conquests. In similar fashion, Byron replied to his friend Hobhouse, who had told him that a recent visitor to Venice had returned to England with the news that Byron had taken a lover. Byron asked, “Which ‘piece’ does he mean?—since last year I have run the Gauntlet;—is it the Tarruscelli—the Da Mosti—the Spineda . . .” and so on through the names of twenty-three mistresses “cum multis aliis” [with many others] that he had during 1818, “and thrice as many to boot since 1817. . . . Some of them are Countesses—& some of them Cobblers wives—some noble—some middling—some low—& all whores.”

  Even Byron realized this was not a suitable atmosphere for little Allegra, so he again palmed her off on the Hoppners, who in turn tried to interest other families in taking her. “She was not by any means an amiable child,” wrote Richard Hoppner, “nor was Mrs. Hoppner or I particularly fond of her.” Isabella Hoppner wrote to Mary Shelley complaining that Allegra was a backward and unlively creature who suffered in the Venice winter as her feet were always blocks of ice. She frequently wet the bed. The Hoppners suggested that she be brought up in Switzerland where the climate would suit her better.

  A wealthy English widow, learning of Allegra’s background, offered to adopt her if Byron would renounce his parental claim. Claire learned about the proposal and wrote to him, “My first wish is that my child should be with myself—that cannot be at present . . . next I should wish her to be with you—but that cannot be.” She had heard of his numerous mistresses. However, she reminded him, there might come a time when he would choose to lead a “steady” life and “live so that Allegra may be with you & both be happy & make you happy . . . therefore before you do any thing . . . think and do not throw away the greatest treasure you have to strangers.” Byron turned down the widow’s offer.

  By the middle of the summer of 1819, he had to do something, for the Hoppners had made plans to leave Venice for Switzerland. Without asking Byron, they had fired Elise, the only stable figure in Allegra’s brief life. Mrs. Hoppner informed Byron that they would leave Allegra with their servant Antonio who, they assured Byron, had fine manners. Allegra did spend some time with this Antonio and his family, where four Italian girls fussed over her before she was turned over to the wife of the Danish ambassador.

  Finally, in August 1819, Byron took responsibility for his daughter. “I wish to see my child—& have her with me,” he declared, ordering the two-year-old to be brought to him. It was all part of Byron’s cycle of concern and neglect. He found that the Hoppners had done little for his daughter. She did not speak a word of English, nor even formal Italian because she had always been with servants, not the family. At first, the child charmed Byron. “Baby B” (as he called her) was beautiful and lively, and she could twist him around her little finger. In September, Byron wrote to Augusta, his half-sister, telling her that he saw the Byron traits in Allegra. He noted that she spoke nothing but Venetian and was “very droll—and has a good deal of the Byron—can’t articulate the letter r at all [the Byrons had a Scottish accent]—frowns and pouts quite in our way—blue eyes—light hair growing darker daily—and a dimple in the chin—a scowl on the brow—white skin—sweet voice—and a particular liking of Music—and of her own way in every thing—is not that B. all over?” Of course, the musical talent marked Allegra even more strongly as her mother’s child.

  One reason why Byron may have decided to resume caring for Allegra was that in April he had met a woman who, for the first time since he left England, made him consider the joys of a “steady” life. Countess Teresa Guiccioli was nineteen, and married to a man of fifty-eight. Though lovely, she was not renowned for her beauty. A later English traveler, who had heard of her affair with Byron, wrote, “I was rather disappointed with her personal appearance . . . she gave one more the idea of a healthy, rosy, jolly-looking milkmaid, than a heroine of romance.” Byron was attending a soirée when his hostess asked if he would like to be introduced to the young countess. At first he refused, but after some persuasion he let himself be led across the room. Teresa later recalled the moment in detail in her autobiography, and at her telling, she was overwhelmed by this “celestial apparition whom it seemed to her she had already seen and loved before, having seen him in her imagination.”

  It was no surprise that a young woman found the sight of Byron irresistible; the mystery was that Byron himself felt an attraction that was more than physical. They talked, that evening, of Italian poetry, a subject she was well versed in, having grown up in Ravenna, where Dante is buried. The discussion continued for far longer than politeness demanded. Teresa wrote, “already the subject of the conversation had become an accessory—already the important thing was to converse—was the development of that mysterious sympathy which grew with each word from the one and the other—and that had already rendered them insensible to what was happening around them.” Her husband finally came to reclaim his wife. “She rose as if she were coming out of a dream,” Teresa wrote of herself.

  The next afternoon, when Count Guiccioli customarily took a nap, an elderly gondolier arrived at his palazzo with a note for his wife. Naturally, it was from Byron, and the boatman took her to a casino, a little house that Byron used for personal matters. “I was strong enough to resist at that first encounter,” Teresa recalled, “but was so imprudent as to repeat it the next day, when my strength gave way—for B. was not a man to confine himself to sentiment. And, the first step taken, there was no further obstacle in the following days.”

  Byron was serious about Teresa, as he had not been about a woman in years. He wrote to Hobhouse, “I am in love—and tired of promiscuous concubinage—& have now an opportunity of settling for life.” There was in fact the possibility of a permanent relationship, if Byron had been willing to accept its conditions. The countess turned down Byron’s impulsive suggestion that they flee to South America; instead, she offered him the role of cavalier servente, publicly an escort and protector. It was understood that lovemaking might be part of the cavalier servente’s role, but only if done with complete discretion. Byron scorned this at first, ridiculing the duties. He wrote Hoppner, “I am drilling very hard to learn how to double a Shawl, and should succeed to admiration—if I did not always double it the wrong side out. . . . A man actually becomes a piece of female property.”

  The count assented to this arrangement. He was not the kind of man who would let his wife’s infidelities go unnoticed; he had already had two wives, and rumors said he had poisoned the first one because she objected to his taking as a mistress the woman who would become the second. (He went to the theater the night the second one died.) However, he not only agreed to Byron’s publicly accompanying Teresa to the theater and opera, he even invited the English cavalier servente to live with them at the Palazzo Guiccioli in Ravenna. The fact that Byron proved liberal with money was one factor in the count’s apparent willingness to allow such a notorious rake near his wife. The count had asked Byron for a sizable loan, and Byron gave it to him. The “rent” on Byron’s apartment in the Palazzo Guiccioli was deducted from what the count owed.

  Though Ravenna was regarded as something of a backwater, compared to cosmopolitan Venice, Byron willingly moved in, along with little Allegra, whom Byron called Allegrina when he was paying attention to her. His apartment, separate from the family’s living quarters, must have been quite extensive, for Shelley later reported that Byron’s household included ten
horses, eight large dogs (no lapdogs for Byron), three monkeys, five cats, five peacocks, an eagle, a crow, a falcon, two guinea hens, and an Egyptian crane. All except the horses walked, or flew, freely about the rooms. Allegra must have felt somewhat insignificant competing with this menagerie.

  Byron of course had other interests—making love to Teresa when her husband was away (“by the clock,” he complained), extending Don Juan through another three cantos, and attending the clandestine meetings of a murky group called the Carbonari, who were plotting the overthrow of Italy’s foreign rulers. Through his friendship with Teresa’s family, the Gambas, Byron had been initiated into the group with the rank of capo. (The Carbonari took their name from the workers who made charcoal in the forests, where their own secret meetings often took place.)

  Neither by personality nor lifestyle was Byron a natural father, and he soon became bored or irritated with the demands of having a small child around. At times, Byron complained that she reminded him of her mother, Claire, though almost everyone else saw the temperamental similarities between the father and his daughter. The servants all doted on Allegra, something Byron attributed in part to her fair skin, “which shines among their dusky children like the milky way.”

  Allegra’s mother started to make demands, something Byron never responded to graciously. Claire, now living with the Shelleys in Pisa, wrote to Byron in March 1820, pointing out that it had been nearly a year and a half since she had seen Allegra, even though Byron had promised she could visit the child regularly. She warned Byron that Allegra might suffer from Ravenna’s unhealthy climate and asked him to allow the child to visit her and the Shelleys again that summer. When he failed to reply, she wrote a second time, suggesting that he send Allegra to meet her and the Shelleys in Bologna in May. Percy’s health, unfortunately, was too frail to allow him to travel to Ravenna.

  Byron was not about to give in to Claire. Though he enjoyed discussing poetry with Shelley, he distrusted his ideas about raising children. He wrote Thomas Hoppner, “I so totally disapprove of the mode of Children’s treatment in their family—that I should look upon the Child [Allegra] as going into a hospital. [The word then meant a home for the indigent or orphans.]—Is it not so? Have they reared one?” That was indeed a low blow, implicitly blaming the Shelleys for the deaths of their children.

  Byron continued, protesting that Allegra was receiving good care: “Her health here has hitherto been excellent—and her temper not bad—she is sometimes vain and obstinate—but always clean and cheerful—and . . . in a year or two I shall either send her to England—or put her in a Convent for education. . . . But the child shall not quit me again—to perish of Starvation, and green fruit—or to be taught to believe that there is no Deity.” He was, of course, referring to Shelley’s vegetarianism and atheism. Mrs. Hoppner conveyed Byron’s remarks to Claire, who wrote with some irritation in her journal, “A letter from Mad[ame]. Hoppner concerning green fruit and God—strange Jumble.” She wrote to Byron yet again, offering to make sure Allegra received the same food she had been accustomed to and assuring him, “she shall be taught to worship God.” He could not have cared less.

  Selfishly and obstinately, Byron kept Allegra. And sure enough, the child’s first Ravenna summer, with its intense heat, did not agree with her. She came down with malarial fever and Byron had to move to a villa in the countryside for her sake. It took her quite a while to recover. Teresa sent the girl some toys, but she was annoyed when Byron hired a nurse that she considered too pretty. (Byron reassured her, “The woman is as ugly as an ogre.”)

  Claire may have found out about Allegra’s illness, and if so surely wrote Byron an angry letter, although none from her during this time have survived. However, in August Byron told Shelley, “I must decline all correspondence with Claire who merely tries to be as irrational and provoking as she can be.”

  Not put off so easily when her daughter’s welfare was at stake, Claire apparently persisted. Byron wrote Hoppner in September,

  Clare [sic] writes me the most insolent letters about Allegra—see what a man gets by taking care of natural children!—Were it not for the poor little child’s sake—I am most tempted to send her back to her atheistical mother—but that would be too bad;—you cannot conceive the excess of her insolence and I know not why—for I have been at great care and expense—taking a house in the country on purpose of her—she has two maids & every possible attention.—If Clare thinks that she shall ever interfere with the child’s morals or education—she mistakes—she never shall—The girl shall be a Christian and a married woman—if possible.—As to seeing her—she may see her—under proper restrictions—but She is not to throw every thing into confusion with her Bedlam behaviour.—To express it delicately—I think Madame Clare is a damned bitch—what think you?

  Byron’s allusion to Claire’s morals, besides being stunningly hypocritical considering his own record, had been stoked by the Hoppners’ repeating to him the story that in 1819 Claire had given birth to Shelley’s child in Naples. They had heard it from the former nursemaid Elise, whose husband Paolo had tried unsuccessfully to blackmail Shelley by threatening to spread the tale. Meanwhile, Byron himself was anything but discreet, and the countess’s ardor carried her away as well. The count apparently caught them in a compromising position in the family quarters of the palazzo, and while he could tolerate his wife’s taking a lover, he could not accept such a brazen insult to his honor. Byron, seriously worried that the count was trying to have him assassinated, began to carry a brace of pistols wherever he went. Remarkably, he continued living in the count’s palazzo—although he was no longer permitted in the family quarters.

  Surprisingly, Teresa’s father, Count Ruggero Gamba, who had considered his daughter’s marriage to Count Guiccioli a good match, now worked to obtain an annulment. Count Ruggero and Byron had discovered their mutual interest in Italian nationalism—Ruggero was also part of the local Carbonari—and that may have won the count’s favor. In a short time, the pope granted a decree of separation, although the terms of it demanded that Teresa live in her father’s home in Ravenna. For a time, that would put a crimp in the romance between Byron and Teresa.

  By this time, Allegra had ceased to be amusing to Byron, and became an uncomfortable reminder of his foolish love affair. Years later Teresa claimed that just the sight of her could at times be unbearable to Byron. “Each time she came into her father’s presence, he used to turn away in disgust and exclaim, ‘Enlevez la; elle ressemble trop à sa mère!’ [‘Take her away; she looks too much like her mother!’]” Byron had long thought that a convent education would be best for Allegra. He considered this a practical solution that would in time increase her chances of making a good marriage. (He had once even discussed a prearranged marriage between her and Count Guiccioli’s son.) Moreover, he claimed to admire the Roman Catholic Church, and wished his daughter to be brought up in that faith. If Allegra were sent to England, Byron feared that her illegitimate birth would be a social handicap. In Italy, a hefty dowry counted as much as birth, and Byron had changed his will to leave Allegra five thousand pounds. Money was easier to give than affection.

  On March 1, 1821, Byron enrolled Allegra in the convent boarding school of San Giovanni Battista at Bagnacavallo, twelve miles from Ravenna. She was just four years old and by far the youngest girl in the school. Byron did not think this was cruel: Allegra was precocious and Teresa herself had entered a convent school at five. From a material standpoint, Allegra was well equipped. She came to the convent with her own bed, chest of drawers, many pretty dresses, and her beautiful dolls, which were as gorgeously dressed as she herself was. Byron wrote his half-sister that he wanted Allegra “to become a good Catholic—& (it may be) a Nun being a character somewhat wanted in our family.”

  Later in the month, when Claire learned what Byron had done, she was furious. For her it was a disaster, and she wrote Byron a harsh letter, accusing him of breaking the promise he had made to her at the
Villa Diodati that Allegra would always remain with one of her parents. She added an attack on convents and convent education, parroting Shelley’s hostility to religion and its effect on Italian women. She claimed that such schooling was responsible for “the state of ignorance & profligacy of Italian women, all pupils of Convents. They are bad wives & most unnatural mothers, licentious & ignorant they are the dishonour & unhappiness of society.” She accused Byron of condemning Allegra “to a life of ignorance & degradation,” depriving her of the advantages of “belonging to the most enlightened country in the world.” (She meant England, though as Byron was certainly aware, Parliament had just passed the Six Acts, designed to stamp out freedom of the press and political dissent.) Claire entreated Byron to let Allegra enter an English boarding school, offering to pay for it herself. Ironically, considering that Claire herself would convert to Roman Catholicism in her old age, she also accused Byron of having Allegra adopt a different religion in order to cut her off from her own mother and her friends.

  Byron forwarded Claire’s attack to Hoppner, with the notation, “The moral part of this letter upon the Italians &c. comes with an excellent grace from the writer [who] planted a child in the N [Naples] foundling &c.” He was referring to the story that Claire and Shelley abandoned the child of their union to an orphanage in Naples. As for the charges Claire made against Catholicism, they only goaded Byron into stubbornness. He would write to Thomas Moore in March 1822, “I am no enemy of religion, but the contrary. As a proof, I am educating my natural daughter a strict Catholic in a convent of Romagna; for I think people can never have enough of religion, if they are to have any. I incline, myself, very much to the Catholic doctrines.” This sounds very much like Byron professing mock piety merely for effect—as he himself was aware, for in a similar letter a few days later, he added, “I am afraid that this sounds flippant, but I don’t mean it to be so. . . . Still, I do assure you that I am a very good Christian.”