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CHAPTER 8.
HIS FIRST PILGRIMAGE.
1809—1811.
Byron wrote his mother a farewell letter. “The world is all before me, and I leave England without regret, and without a wish to re-visit anything it contains, except yourself and your present residence.”
The voyage was not by any means a pleasant one. Its unpleasantness, however, was compensated by the attractions of Lisbon. Writing of Lisbon, he says: “I am very happy here, because I loves oranges and talks bad Latin to the monks, who understand it as it is like their own, and I goes into society with my ‘pocket pistols,’ and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portugese, and have diarrhoea and bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a-pleasuring.”
He left Lisbon in the middle of July, and proceeded to ride across Portugal and Spain to Cadiz—a distance of nearly five hundred miles; thence they took a boat to Gibraltar. It was here in the Garrison Library that he met John Galt, a novelist, who afterwards was one of Byron’s biographers. Galt says of this meeting: “The impression was not agreeable, but it was interesting.”
The next day Galt embarked for Malta, and found that Byron and Hobhouse were on the same boat. In the early part of the voyage Galt was somewhat annoyed by Byron’s aloofness from the other passengers, and he decided that Hobhouse was much the more attractive of the two. However, after a few days Byron came out of his shell, and joined with the other passengers in all the amenities of the ship. Galt watched him closely, and by the end of the voyage he had come to the conclusion that the young poet was one of the most delightful acquaintances of his life.
Byron and Hobhouse stayed in Malta a fortnight, and then made towards Albania. Byron was fascinated by this country. Its wild mountain scenery reminded him of Scotland, which he had known in the days of his childhood. Nothing during the whole of the tour pleased him more than his visit to Ali, the Pacha of Yanina. Ali, who was pre-eminent in craft and cruelty, received the travellers with all the honours of state, and extended to them magnificent hospitality. He did all he could to impress them with his power and the majesty of his estate, but he was genial and lavished his courtesies upon them. Byron succumbed to the compliments that he paid to him upon the marks of his nobility, to be observed in his small ears, curling hair, and little white hands! The whole personality of Ali impressed Byron tremendously. It was at Yanina that Byron began writing the first canto of Childe Harold.
When the travellers left Albania en route for Greece, they were provided with guides and an armed escort. They arranged to go to Greece by sea, but owing to a storm and the incompetence of the crew they nearly lost their lives. Hobhouse testifies that whilst all aboard were stricken with panic and frenzied despair, Byron behaved with wonderful coolness and courage. His lameness prevented his rendering any assistance, so he wrapped himself up in his cloak, lay down on the deck and went to sleep. In the storm the ship was driven on to the beach.
The Suliotes, a fierce and powerful mountain tribe, gave the shipwrecked travellers a very warm welcome. They dried their clothes, fed them, housed them, and provided them with a spectacular dance. Byron offered to pay them for their services, but they refused to accept any money—their chief remarking “I wish you to love me, not to pay me.”
After this experience, they decided to make their way to Greece over the mountains. It was a difficult and dangerous ride. Byron enjoyed the wild scenery, and was highly entertained by the Suliotes who accompanied the party on their journey.
Upon reaching Greece, they rode over the plains to the little town of Missolonghi, where they made their first halt.
When Byron left England he had three English servants with him—old Joe Murray, William Fletcher, his valet, who grumbled at leaving his wife Sally shortly after their marriage, and a young boy, Robert Rushton, the son of a farmer, to whom he had taken a great fancy.
Joe Murray and Robert Rushton had returned to England from Gibraltar, one because he was too old, the other because he was too young to face the rest of the journey. Fletcher remained with Byron and was now the only Englishman in his service. He did not take kindly to the dangers and privations of the journey through Albania. “Fletcher,” Byron writes to his mother, “is very much disgusted with his fatigues, though he has undergone nothing that I have not shared. He is a poor creature.” The pilgrims stayed two days at Missolonghi,, and then took ship for Patras. They visited Delphi, Thebes, and the village of Scourta, and eventually entered Athens in the evening of Christmas Day.
They made a somewhat lengthy stay at Athens and devoted the greater part of their time to the “contemplation of the noble monuments of ancient genius.” The two pilgrims lodged in adjoining houses—Byron at the house of Theodora Maori, whose three daughters, Teresa, Mariana, and Katinka—all of them under fifteen—made amusing companions for him. It was of Teresa that he wrote—
We need not suppose that these lines convey that he cherished any attachment to her. She was vivacious and witty, and made good company for him.
The travellers made numerous excursions from Athens, and during their stay of ten weeks explored the neighbourhood thoroughly. Early in March they set out for Smyrna, where Byron completed the second Canto of Childe Harold. The frigate, in which they were sailing, put in at the Isle of Tenedos on its way to Constantinople. It was here that Leander had swum the Hellespont. Byron was eager to emulate him. He made two attempts accompanied by a naval officer named Ekenhead. The first attempt failed, the current proving too strong for them, but the second attempt was successful. Byron accomplished the feat in one hour and ten minutes, but Ekenhead in five minutes less. He was very proud of his achievement, and makes frequent reference to it in his letters.
They reached Constantinople on May 13, 1810, where the British Ambassador received them and presented them to the Sultan Mahmoud. After a stay of a little more than two months, which were spent for the most part in riding and rowing, it was arranged that the pilgrims should part company. Hobhouse returned to England, and Byron planned another visit to Athens, where he made his headquarters at the Monastery of the Capucins. The life of the Monastery was none too strict, and he found an outlet for his spirits in boxing contests and all kinds of sports. “I am, in fact, at school again,” he wrote to Hobhouse.
During the winter months he divided his time between Athens and Patras. Patras was an unhealthy place, and in October he fell a victim to malaria. He was desperately ill, and but for the nursing of his Albanian servants he would most certainly have died. He returned to Athens suffering from the effects of his illness, but he contrived to do a little work, writing two satires Hints from Horace and The Curse of Minerva.
There is no doubt that he was thoroughly enjoying himself abroad, but we are able to detect at this time an indefinable “something” which seemed to be drawing him homewards. It is true that Hanson refused to send him any further remittances, and urged him to return, as creditors were threatening his estates. He must go home, but it was not for this reason that he embarked on the frigate Volage. Whom would he meet on his return? Whom did he want to meet? Were the old wounds opening again? He had gone abroad to forget. Had he forgotten?
“After two years’ absence, I am retracing my way to England,” so he wrote to his friend Dallas—and to another friend, Hodgson: “I am returning home without a hope.”
But why? Why retracing his way to England? Why returning home? And “without a hope?” Hope of what? Hope of whom?
He was going back to England, to Newstead, and near by was Annesley Hall.