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CHAPTER 15.
TERESA GUICCIOLI.
1819.
It was shortly after his illness that Byron met the famous Countess Teresa Guiccioli. A year before their meeting she had been married at the age of sixteen to an Italian nobleman, who was well advanced in years. She was presented to Byron at a conversazione, and describes herself how she fell a victim to his charms. It was with great reluctance that she went to this party—she was tired, very tired, and it was only in deference to her husband’s wishes that she attended this function. “Lord Byron’s noble and exquisitely beautiful countenance, the tone of his voice, his manners, the thousand enchantments that surrounded him, rendered him so different, and so superior a being to any whom I had hitherto seen, that it was impossible that he should not have left the most profound impression on me.”
It was not long before they met daily. Byron found her a most devoted and entertaining companion. She was a woman of many parts, and her intellectual attainments were strikingly above the average.
She made no secret of her love for him. She adored him with all her heart, and in society, and even in the presence of her husband, did not hesitate to speak of him as “Mio Byron.” Byron was somewhat embarrassed. She thought that her love was fully reciprocated, but in this she was mistaken. That he was fond of her there could be no doubt whatever, but “his days of love were over”—“no more the freshness of his heart could fall like dew.” He was lonely and wanted a companion, and she was able to supply all that he needed at the moment.
The Countess was troubled in mind. Her husband owned estates in Ravenna and Bologna. They would shortly be leaving Venice for the summer months. Would she have to leave Byron behind? She was determined that he should follow her, and he was made aware of her determination.
In a few weeks’ time the Count took his wife to Ravenna, and Byron remained behind in Venice. She wrote to him daily, and one letter brought the news that she was ill, and wanted him at her side. At first he was rather astounded at the boldness of the request, and hesitated, but it was not long before he complied with her wishes. He found the journey full of interest, although the weather was overpoweringly hot, and the roads very dusty.
Upon arriving at Ravenna he took up his quarters at the Inn, and it was not long before Count Guiccioli called upon him, and requested that he would pay a visit to his wife. Teresa was in bed and desperately ill. The doctors feared that she might go into a consumption. Byron installed himself in the house at her request, and waited upon her hand and foot. No one could have been more kind and attentive. There were soon signs of improvement in her condition, which she herself attributed to his company and loving care. The improvement continued, and it was not long before the Countess was convalescent.
The Count appeared to be grateful to Byron for what he had done for his wife. He visited him at the Inn, and they were frequently seen driving together in the Count’s coach-and-six. Byron was always a welcome visitor at the Palazzo Guiccioli, and he and the Countess had their daily ride together in the beautiful pine forest which stretched right down to the sea-shore.
On one occasion they paid a visit together to the tomb of Dante after Byron had written, at her bequest, the Prophecy of Dante. When the Guicciolis left Ravenna for Bologna, Byron followed them. He found apartments in a Palazzo, and arranged for Allegra to join him.
At this time we are able to trace the first signs of a desire to break away from his entanglements. He was busy with the third Canto of Don Juan. The writing of this poem gave him more enjoyment than the writing of any other that he produced. He lived in it—it was an absorbing interest. There came over him the feeling that he was wasting his life. He was thirty-one years of age. What could he do? An irresistible impulse was driving him to action, but in his present surroundings, and under present conditions he could do nothing. He was moored fast. How could he break away? He planned leaving Italy. In the spring he would go to South America, and take Allegra with him—but Teresa had other plans for him. Her health was none too good. She needed a breath of Venetian air. Her husband could not possibly accompany her—he had business to transact in Ravenna, but Byron she was sure would make the journey with her. She submitted her plan to the Count, and he tacitly approved. On September 15, 1819, she and Byron started on their journey to Venice. Byron still had his villa at La Mira. This was put at the disposal of the invalid, and, as he was responsible for her, there was no alternative to residing at the Villa too.
It was a very delightful arrangement from her point of view. She had Byron all to herself, but it does not seem that he with his Teresa all to himself found the arrangement equally pleasing. As time went on he began to tire of her company. His adventurous spirit chafed under the restrictions of domesticity. A visit from his old friend Tom Moore saved the situation. Byron was overjoyed to see him and offered him hospitality at the Palazzo Mocenigo. They saw one another every day—in fact Byron contrived to devote nearly the whole of his time to his friend. They visited all the places of interest in Venice and its neighbourhood, and Moore was thrilled by everything that he saw. On the day of his departure Byron handed to him the famous Memoirs—“My life and adventures,” he said—“it is not a thing that can be published during my lifetime, but you may have it and do whatever you please with it.”
Following upon Moore’s visit domestic troubles began to brew. Count Guiccioli turned up at La Mira. He was in a furious temper, and insisted that Teresa should choose then and there between himself and Byron. She chose Byron and besought him to run away with her. He refused this request, and with very great difficulty persuaded her to return to Ravenna with her husband. Teresa was heartbroken, and Byron wrote to her, “I pray of you, I implore you, to be comforted, I am going away in order to save you.”
The moment had arrived—the moment for action. He was free now to act, to do something worth while, something heroic. First of all he would go back to England—he was home-sick. He was heart-sick—once more he was alone. Early memories returned. They were still there. He had succeeded in suppressing them, but at what a price! They had not passed. He would go back to England and to . . . . . . but his plans were delayed.
Fever once more claimed him as a victim—after him Allegra, and several of the domestic staff, but at last the day of his departure arrived. Everything was ready, the gondola was at the steps of the Palazzo Mocenigo laden with luggage, but Teresa was ill again. She implored him to come. She would never get better without him. Her father had talked to the Count, and he had given his consent. What was he to do? Could he resist her pitiful entreaty? He hesitated—in that moment of hesitation all his plans were cancelled, and he set out for Ravenna.