Final Exile and Death.
He goes back—eighty-five now—toothless, and trembling under weight of years and wranglings, to the Via Nunziatina, in Florence; he has no means now—having despoiled himself for the benefit of those living at his Villa of Fiesole, who will not live with him, or he with them; he is largely dependent upon a brother in England. He passes a summer, in these times, with the American sculptor Story. He receives occasional wandering friends; has a new pet of a dog to fondle.
There is always a trail of worshipping women and poetasters about him to the very last; but the bad odor of his Bath troubles has followed him; Normanby, the British Minister, will give him no recognition; but there is no bending, no flinching in this great, astute, imperious, headstrong, ill-balanced creature. Indeed, he carries now under his shock of white hair, and in his tottering figure, a stock of that coarse virility which has distinguished him always—which for so many has its charm, and which it is hard to reconcile with the tender things of which he was capable;—for instance, that interview of Agamemnon and Iphigenia—so cunningly, delicately, and so feelingly told—as if the story were all his own, and had no Greek root—other than what found hold in the greensward of English Warwickshire. And I close our talk of Landor, by citing this: Iphigenia has heard her doom (you know the story); she must die by the hands of the priest—or, the ships, on which her father’s hopes and his fortunes rest, cannot sail. Yet, she pleads;—there may have been mistakes in interpreting the cruel oracle,—there may be hope still,—
“The Father placed his cheek upon her head
And tears dropt down it; but, the king of men
Replied not: Then the maiden spoke once more,—
‘O, Father, says’t thou nothing? Hear’st thou not
Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour,
Listened to—fondly; and awakened me
To hear my voice amid the voice of birds
When it was inarticulate as theirs,
And the down deadened it within the nest.’
He moved her gently from him, silent still:
And this, and this alone, brought tears from her
Although she saw fate nearer: then, with sighs,—
‘I thought to have laid down my hair before
Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed
Her polisht altar with my virgin blood;
I thought to have selected the white flowers
To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each
By name, and with no sorrowful regret,
Whether, since both my parents willed the change,
I might at Hymen’s feet bend my clipt brow,
And—(after those who mind us girls the most)
Adore our own Athena, that she would
Regard me mildly with her azure eyes;
But—Father! to see you no more, and see
Your love, O Father! go, ere I am gone.’
Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,
Bending his lofty head far over hers,
And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst:
He turned away: not far, but silent still:
She now first shuddered; for in him—so nigh,
So long a silence seemed the approach of death
And like it. Once again, she raised her voice,—
‘O Father! if the ships are now detained
And all your vows move not the Gods above
When the knife strikes me, there will be one prayer
The less to them; and, purer can there be
Any, or more fervent, than the daughter’s prayer
For her dear father’s safety and success?’
A groan that shook him, shook not his Resolve.
An aged man now entered, and without
One word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist
Of the pale maiden. She looked up and saw
The fillet of the priest, and calm cold eyes:
Then turned she, where her parent stood and cried,—
‘O, Father! grieve no more! the ships can sail!’”
When we think of Landor, let us forget his wrangles—forget his wild impetuosities—forget his coarsenesses, and his sad, lonely death; and—instead—keep in mind, if we can, that sweet picture I have given you.