“No, never,” said Emmeline shortly, not much liking to get on such tender ground.
“I should have sworn you had; I have heard you talk as if you knew all Italy by heart; and you have in your composition, that suavity of mind and temper, which the sun, the air, the beauteous scenes of Italy, the dark blue of its seas give. I should have been ten times more detestable than I am, had I not passed so much of my life in the pure, soft atmosphere of Italy. I don’t know, by the bye, that my friend Fitzhenry there proves my doctrine true; I don’t think he has benefited much by such education; vide the pin affair. But I suppose it is only the effect of change of climate, and that the cold, dark fogs of this country, have again contracted his heart, and made it selfish and English.”
Fitzhenry said nothing, and apparently was engrossed by his book. Mr. Moore continued. “Many a battle Fitzhenry and I have had about Lord Byron—I wonder what side you would take. I never can feel for his imaginary woes. What the deuce is the matter with the fellow? what does he want? He has had every thing this world can give. All the fools and fine ladies running after him, and paying him court à l’envi l’un de l’autre; and yet he went grumbling and whining about, despising, and turning up his nose at us all, who are ten times better than himself. He chose, too, to hate and ill-treat his wife, after he had insisted, almost against her own will, or at least against her judgment, to marry her, and she an heiress, into the bargain. This was to be a new distress; and on this he begun, de plus belle, to grumble and whine, and moreover to blackguard. Now, Fitzhenry, how do you defend all this?”
“I don’t pretend to defend him in any thing,” said Fitzhenry, very impatiently; “I only say, that persons with totally different feelings and characters cannot judge of each other. What would be keen suffering to one, might be none to another. I might answer you in the words of Madame de Staël—”Les gens mediocres ne cessent de s’étonner que le talent ait des besoins differens des leurs; and as for Lord Byron’s private history, neither you nor I have any business with it, or know any thing about it.”
“The deuce we don’t?” said Moore, “many thanks, par parenthese, for your pretty compliment to me, au sujet de la mediocrité; but we will let that pass: I am well used to such from you,” said he, laughing; “but I cannot give up so quietly Lord Byron, who certainly has had the bad taste (to say no worse) to take pains to tell us all what a villain he is, so that few of us can be ignorant of his private history.”
Fitzhenry said nothing; and resuming his book, turned away, as if the light hurt his eyes.
“Lady Fitzhenry, don’t you agree with me about Lord Byron,” continued the indefatigable Moore.
“I believe not,” said Emmeline with a tremulous voice—”I should not—I think no one can, or should presume to judge of the feelings, hardly of the situation and conduct of another.” An involuntary sigh finished the sentence; fortunately it escaped her neighbour’s ear, as he was hastily turning over the leaves of the book, reading a line here and there.
“Il faut pourtant etre juste,” said Moore; “and, to give the devil his due, Lord Byron is in truth a most delightful poet. We all find that he describes our own thoughts and feelings, which we have not had the wit to put into rhyme ourselves. Here is a pretty specimen of sing-song sentiment, for instance:—
‘Florence, whom I will love as well