The Complete Poetical Works, by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Julian and Maddalo

A Conversation

[Composed at Este after Shelley’s first visit to Venice, 1818 (Autumn); first published in the “Posthumous Poems”, London, 1824 (edition Mrs. Shelley). Shelley’s original intention had been to print the poem in Leigh Hunt’s “Examiner”; but he changed his mind and, on August 15, 1819, sent the manuscript to Hunt to be published anonymously by Ollier. This manuscript, found by Mr. Townshend Mayer, and by him placed in the hands of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B., is described at length in Mr. Forman’s Library Edition of the poems (volume 3 page 107). The date, ‘May, 1819,’ affixed to “Julian and Maddalo” in the “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, indicates the time when the text was finally revised by Shelley. Sources of the text are (1) “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; (2) the Hunt manuscript; (3) a fair draft of the poem amongst the Boscombe manuscripts; (4) “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st and 2nd editions (Mrs. Shelley). Our text is that of the Hunt manuscript, as printed in Forman’s Library Edition of the Poems, 1876, volume 3, pages 103-30; variants of 1824 are indicated in the footnotes; questions of punctuation are dealt with in the notes at the end of the volume.]

Table of Contents

Preface.

Julian and Maddalo.

Note by Mrs. Shelley.

Preface.

The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme,

The goats with the green leaves of budding Spring,

Are saturated not — nor Love with tears.

— VIRGIL’S “Gallus”.

Count Maddalo is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. He is a person of the most consummate genius, and capable, if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud: he derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men; and, instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength. His ambition preys upon itself, for want of objects which it can consider worthy of exertion. I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the concentred and impatient feelings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient and unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much; and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different countries.

Julian is an Englishman of good family, passionately attached to those philosophical notions which assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may be yet susceptible. Without concealing the evil in the world he is for ever speculating how good may be made superior. He is a complete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed holy; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess some good qualities. How far this is possible the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather serious.

Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems, by his own account, to have been disappointed in love. He was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when in his right senses. His story, told at length, might be like many other stories of the same kind: the unconnected exclamations of his agony will perhaps be found a sufficient comment for the text of every heart.

Julian and Maddalo.

A Conversation.

I rode one evening with Count Maddalo

Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow

Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand

Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand,

5

Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds,

Such as from earth’s embrace the salt ooze breeds,

Is this; an uninhabited sea-side,

Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried,

Abandons; and no other object breaks

10

The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes

Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes

A narrow space of level sand thereon,

Where ’twas our wont to ride while day went down.

This ride was my delight. I love all waste

15

And solitary places; where we taste

The pleasure of believing what we see

Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be:

And such was this wide ocean, and this shore

More barren than its billows; and yet more

20

Than all, with a remembered friend I love

To ride as then I rode; — for the winds drove

The living spray along the sunny air

Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare,

Stripped to their depths by the awakening north;

25

And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth

Harmonising with solitude, and sent

Into our hearts aereal merriment.

So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought,

Winging itself with laughter, lingered not,

30

But flew from brain to brain — such glee was ours,

Charged with light memories of remembered hours,

None slow enough for sadness: till we came

Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame.

This day had been cheerful but cold, and now

35

The sun was sinking, and the wind also.

Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be

Talk interrupted with such raillery

As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn

The thoughts it would extinguish:—’twas forlorn,

40

Yet pleasing, such as once, so poets tell,

The devils held within the dales of Hell

Concerning God, freewill and destiny:

Of all that earth has been or yet may be,

All that vain men imagine or believe,

45

Or hope can paint or suffering may achieve,

We descanted; and I (for ever still

Is it not wise to make the best of ill?)

Argued against despondency, but pride

Made my companion take the darker side.

50

The sense that he was greater than his kind

Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind

By gazing on its own exceeding light.

Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight,

Over the horizon of the mountains; — Oh,

55

How beautiful is sunset, when the glow

Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee,

Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!

Thy mountains, seas and vineyards, and the towers

Of cities they encircle! — it was ours

60

To stand on thee, beholding it: and then,

Just where we had dismounted, the Count’s men

Were waiting for us with the gondola. —

As those who pause on some delightful way

Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood

65

Looking upon the evening, and the flood

Which lay between the city and the shore,

Paved with the image of the sky . . . the hoar

And aery Alps towards the North appeared

Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark reared

70

Between the East and West; and half the sky

Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry

Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew

Down the steep West into a wondrous hue

Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent

75

Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent

Among the many-folded hills: they were

Those famous Euganean hills, which bear,

As seen from Lido thro’ the harbour piles,

The likeness of a clump of peaked isles —

80

And then — as if the Earth and Sea had been

Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen

Those mountains towering as from waves of flame

Around the vaporous sun, from which there came

The inmost purple spirit of light, and made

85

Their very peaks transparent. ‘Ere it fade,’

Said my companion, ‘I will show you soon

A better station’— so, o’er the lagune

We glided; and from that funereal bark

I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark

90

How from their many isles, in evening’s gleam,

Its temples and its palaces did seem

Like fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven.

I was about to speak, when —‘We are even

Now at the point I meant,’ said Maddalo,

95

And bade the gondolieri cease to row.

‘Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well

If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.’

I looked, and saw between us and the sun

A building on an island; such a one

100

As age to age might add, for uses vile,

A windowless, deformed and dreary pile;

And on the top an open tower, where hung

A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung;

We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue:

105

The broad sun sunk behind it, and it tolled

In strong and black relief. —‘What we behold

Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,’

Said Maddalo, ‘and ever at this hour

Those who may cross the water, hear that bell

110

Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell,

To vespers.’—‘As much skill as need to pray

In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they

To their stern maker,’ I replied. ‘O ho!

You talk as in years past,’ said Maddalo.

115

‘’Tis strange men change not. You were ever still

Among Christ’s flock a perilous infidel,

A wolf for the meek lambs — if you can’t swim

Beware of Providence.’ I looked on him,

But the gay smile had faded in his eye.

120

‘And such,’— he cried, ‘is our mortality,

And this must be the emblem and the sign

Of what should be eternal and divine! —

And like that black and dreary bell, the soul,

Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must toll

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Our thoughts and our desires to meet below

Round the rent heart and pray — as madmen do

For what? they know not — till the night of death

As sunset that strange vision, severeth

Our memory from itself, and us from all

130

We sought and yet were baffled.’ I recall

The sense of what he said, although I mar

The force of his expressions. The broad star

Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill,

And the black bell became invisible,

135

And the red tower looked gray, and all between

The churches, ships and palaces were seen

Huddled in gloom; — into the purple sea

The orange hues of heaven sunk silently.

We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola

140

Conveyed me to my lodging by the way.

The following morn was rainy, cold, and dim:

Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him,

And whilst I waited with his child I played;

A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made;

145

A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being,

Graceful without design and unforeseeing,

With eyes — Oh speak not of her eyes! — which seem

Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam

With such deep meaning, as we never see

150

But in the human countenance: with me

She was a special favourite: I had nursed

Her fine and feeble limbs when she came first

To this bleak world; and she yet seemed to know

On second sight her ancient playfellow,

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Less changed than she was by six months or so;

For after her first shyness was worn out

We sate there, rolling billiard balls about,

When the Count entered. Salutations past —

‘The word you spoke last night might well have cast

160

A darkness on my spirit — if man be

The passive thing you say, I should not see

Much harm in the religions and old saws

(Tho’ I may never own such leaden laws)

Which break a teachless nature to the yoke:

165

Mine is another faith.’— thus much I spoke

And noting he replied not, added: ‘See

This lovely child, blithe, innocent and free;

She spends a happy time with little care,

While we to such sick thoughts subjected are

170

As came on you last night. It is our will

That thus enchains us to permitted ill —

We might be otherwise — we might be all

We dream of happy, high, majestical.

Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek,

175

But in our mind? and if we were not weak

Should we be less in deed than in desire?’

‘Ay, if we were not weak — and we aspire

How vainly to be strong!’ said Maddalo:

‘You talk Utopia.’ ‘It remains to know,’

180

I then rejoined, ‘and those who try may find

How strong the chains are which our spirit bind;

Brittle perchance as straw . . . We are assured

Much may be conquered, much may be endured,

Of what degrades and crushes us. We know

185

That we have power over ourselves to do

And suffer — what, we know not till we try;

But something nobler than to live and die —

So taught those kings of old philosophy

Who reigned, before Religion made men blind;

190

And those who suffer with their suffering kind

Yet feel their faith, religion.’ ‘My dear friend,’

Said Maddalo, ‘my judgement will not bend

To your opinion, though I think you might

Make such a system refutation-tight

195

As far as words go. I knew one like you

Who to this city came some months ago,

With whom I argued in this sort, and he

Is now gone mad — and so he answered me —

Poor fellow! but if you would like to go,

200

We’ll visit him, and his wild talk will show

How vain are such aspiring theories.’

‘I hope to prove the induction otherwise,

And that a want of that true theory, still,

Which seeks a “soul of goodness” in things ill

205

Or in himself or others, has thus bowed

His being — there are some by nature proud,

Who patient in all else demand but this —

To love and be beloved with gentleness;

And being scorned, what wonder if they die

210

Some living death? this is not destiny

But man’s own wilful ill.’

As thus I spoke

Servants announced the gondola, and we

Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea

Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands.

215

We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands,

Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen,

And laughter where complaint had merrier been,

Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers

Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs

220

Into an old courtyard. I heard on high,

Then, fragments of most touching melody,

But looking up saw not the singer there —

Through the black bars in the tempestuous air

I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing,

225

Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing,

Of those who on a sudden were beguiled

Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled

Hearing sweet sounds. Then I: ‘Methinks there were

A cure of these with patience and kind care,

230

If music can thus move . . . but what is he

Whom we seek here?’ ‘Of his sad history

I know but this,’ said Maddalo: ‘he came

To Venice a dejected man, and fame

Said he was wealthy, or he had been so;

235

Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe;

But he was ever talking in such sort

As you do — far more sadly — he seemed hurt,

Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,

To hear but of the oppression of the strong,

240

Or those absurd deceits (I think with you

In some respects, you know) which carry through

The excellent impostors of this earth

When they outface detection — he had worth,

Poor fellow! but a humorist in his way’—

245

‘Alas, what drove him mad?’ ‘I cannot say:

A lady came with him from France, and when

She left him and returned, he wandered then

About yon lonely isles of desert sand

Till he grew wild — he had no cash or land

250

Remaining — the police had brought him here —

Some fancy took him and he would not bear

Removal; so I fitted up for him

Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim,

And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers,

255

Which had adorned his life in happier hours,

And instruments of music — you may guess

A stranger could do little more or less

For one so gentle and unfortunate:

And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight

260

From madmen’s chains, and make this Hell appear

A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.’—

‘Nay, this was kind of you — he had no claim,

As the world says’—‘None — but the very same

Which I on all mankind were I as he

265

Fallen to such deep reverse; — his melody

Is interrupted — now we hear the din

Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin;

Let us now visit him; after this strain

He ever communes with himself again,

270

And sees nor hears not any.’ Having said

These words, we called the keeper, and he led

To an apartment opening on the sea —

There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully

Near a piano, his pale fingers twined

275

One with the other, and the ooze and wind

Rushed through an open casement, and did sway

His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray;

His head was leaning on a music book,

And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook;

280

His lips were pressed against a folded leaf

In hue too beautiful for health, and grief

Smiled in their motions as they lay apart —

As one who wrought from his own fervid heart

The eloquence of passion, soon he raised

285

His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed

And spoke — sometimes as one who wrote, and thought

His words might move some heart that heeded not,

If sent to distant lands: and then as one

Reproaching deeds never to be undone

290

With wondering self-compassion; then his speech

Was lost in grief, and then his words came each

Unmodulated, cold, expressionless —

But that from one jarred accent you might guess

It was despair made them so uniform:

295

And all the while the loud and gusty storm

Hissed through the window, and we stood behind

Stealing his accents from the envious wind

Unseen. I yet remember what he said

Distinctly: such impression his words made.

300

‘Month after month,’ he cried, ‘to bear this load

And as a jade urged by the whip and goad

To drag life on, which like a heavy chain

Lengthens behind with many a link of pain! —

And not to speak my grief — O, not to dare

305

To give a human voice to my despair,

But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile on

As if I never went aside to groan,

And wear this mask of falsehood even to those

Who are most dear — not for my own repose —

310

Alas! no scorn or pain or hate could be

So heavy as that falsehood is to me —

But that I cannot bear more altered faces

Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces,

More misery, disappointment, and mistrust

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To own me for their father . . . Would the dust

Were covered in upon my body now!

That the life ceased to toil within my brow!

And then these thoughts would at the least be fled;

Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.

320

‘What Power delights to torture us? I know

That to myself I do not wholly owe

What now I suffer, though in part I may.

Alas! none strewed sweet flowers upon the way

Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain

325

My shadow, which will leave me not again —

If I have erred, there was no joy in error,

But pain and insult and unrest and terror;

I have not as some do, bought penitence

With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence,

330

For then — if love and tenderness and truth

Had overlived hope’s momentary youth,

My creed should have redeemed me from repenting;

But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting

Met love excited by far other seeming

335

Until the end was gained . . . as one from dreaming

Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state

Such as it is. —

‘O Thou, my spirit’s mate

Who, for thou art compassionate and wise,

Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes

340

If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see —

My secret groans must be unheard by thee,

Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know

Thy lost friend’s incommunicable woe.

‘Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed

345

In friendship, let me not that name degrade

By placing on your hearts the secret load

Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road

To peace and that is truth, which follow ye!

Love sometimes leads astray to misery.

350

Yet think not though subdued — and I may well

Say that I am subdued — that the full Hell

Within me would infect the untainted breast

Of sacred nature with its own unrest;

As some perverted beings think to find

355

In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind

Which scorn or hate have wounded — O how vain!

The dagger heals not but may rend again . . .

Believe that I am ever still the same

In creed as in resolve, and what may tame

360

My heart, must leave the understanding free,

Or all would sink in this keen agony —

Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry;

Or with my silence sanction tyranny;

Or seek a moment’s shelter from my pain

365

In any madness which the world calls gain,

Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern

As those which make me what I am; or turn

To avarice or misanthropy or lust . . .

Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust!

370

Till then the dungeon may demand its prey,

And Poverty and Shame may meet and say —

Halting beside me on the public way —

“That love-devoted youth is ours — let’s sit

Beside him — he may live some six months yet.”

375

Or the red scaffold, as our country bends,

May ask some willing victim; or ye friends

May fall under some sorrow which this heart

Or hand may share or vanquish or avert;

I am prepared — in truth, with no proud joy —

380

To do or suffer aught, as when a boy

I did devote to justice and to love

My nature, worthless now! . . .

‘I must remove

A veil from my pent mind. ’Tis torn aside!

O, pallid as Death’s dedicated bride,

385

Thou mockery which art sitting by my side,

Am I not wan like thee? at the grave’s call

I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball

To greet the ghastly paramour, for whom

Thou hast deserted me . . . and made the tomb

390

Thy bridal bed . . . But I beside your feet

Will lie and watch ye from my winding-sheet —

Thus . . . wide awake tho’ dead . . . yet stay, O stay!

Go not so soon — I know not what I say —

Hear but my reasons . . . I am mad, I fear,

395

My fancy is o’erwrought . . . thou art not here . . .

Pale art thou, ’tis most true . . . but thou art gone,

Thy work is finished . . . I am left alone! —

. . .

‘Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast

Which, like a serpent, thou envenomest

400

As in repayment of the warmth it lent?

Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?

Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought

That thou wert she who said, “You kiss me not

Ever, I fear you do not love me now”—

405

In truth I loved even to my overthrow

Her, who would fain forget these words: but they

Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away.

. . .

‘You say that I am proud — that when I speak

My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break

410

The spirit it expresses . . . Never one

Humbled himself before, as I have done!

Even the instinctive worm on which we tread

Turns, though it wound not — then with prostrate head

Sinks in the dusk and writhes like me — and dies?

415

No: wears a living death of agonies!

As the slow shadows of the pointed grass

Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass,

Slow, ever-moving — making moments be

As mine seem — each an immortality!

. . .

420

‘That you had never seen me — never heard

My voice, and more than all had ne’er endured

The deep pollution of my loathed embrace —

That your eyes ne’er had lied love in my face —

That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out

425

The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root

With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne’er

Our hearts had for a moment mingled there

To disunite in horror — these were not

With thee, like some suppressed and hideous thought

430

Which flits athwart our musings, but can find

No rest within a pure and gentle mind . . .

Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word,

And searedst my memory o’er them — for I heard

And can forget not . . . they were ministered

435

One after one, those curses. Mix them up

Like self-destroying poisons in one cup,

And they will make one blessing which thou ne’er

Didst imprecate for, on me — death.

. . .

‘It were

A cruel punishment for one most cruel,

440

If such can love, to make that love the fuel

Of the mind’s hell; hate, scorn, remorse, despair:

But ME— whose heart a stranger’s tear might wear

As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone,

Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan

445

For woes which others hear not, and could see

The absent with the glance of phantasy,

And with the poor and trampled sit and weep,

Following the captive to his dungeon deep;

ME— who am as a nerve o’er which do creep

450

The else unfelt oppressions of this earth,

And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth,

When all beside was cold — that thou on me

Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony —

Such curses are from lips once eloquent

455

With love’s too partial praise — let none relent

Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name

Henceforth, if an example for the same

They seek . . . for thou on me lookedst so, and so —

And didst speak thus . . . and thus . . . I live to show

How much men bear and die not!

. . .

460

‘Thou wilt tell

With the grimace of hate, how horrible

It was to meet my love when thine grew less;

Thou wilt admire how I could e’er address

Such features to love’s work . . . this taunt, though true,

465

(For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue

Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship)

Shall not be thy defence . . . for since thy lip

Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindled

With soft fire under mine, I have not dwindled

470

Nor changed in mind or body, or in aught

But as love changes what it loveth not

After long years and many trials.

‘How vain

Are words! I thought never to speak again,

Not even in secret — not to mine own heart —

475

But from my lips the unwilling accents start,

And from my pen the words flow as I write,

Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears . . . my sight

Is dim to see that charactered in vain

On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain

480

And eats into it . . . blotting all things fair

And wise and good which time had written there.

‘Those who inflict must suffer, for they see

The work of their own hearts, and this must be

Our chastisement or recompense — O child!

485

I would that thine were like to be more mild

For both our wretched sakes . . . for thine the most

Who feelest already all that thou hast lost

Without the power to wish it thine again;

And as slow years pass, a funereal train

490

Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend

Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend

No thought on my dead memory?

. . .

‘Alas, love!

Fear me not . . . against thee I would not move

A finger in despite. Do I not live

495

That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve?

I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate;

And that thy lot may be less desolate

Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain

From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.

500

Then, when thou speakest of me, never say

“He could forgive not.” Here I cast away

All human passions, all revenge, all pride;

I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide

Under these words, like embers, every spark

505

Of that which has consumed me — quick and dark

The grave is yawning . . . as its roof shall cover

My limbs with dust and worms under and over

So let Oblivion hide this grief . . . the air

Closes upon my accents, as despair

510

Upon my heart — let death upon despair!’

He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile,

Then rising, with a melancholy smile

Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept

A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept

515

And muttered some familiar name, and we

Wept without shame in his society.

I think I never was impressed so much;

The man who were not, must have lacked a touch

Of human nature . . . then we lingered not,

520

Although our argument was quite forgot,

But calling the attendants, went to dine

At Maddalo’s; yet neither cheer nor wine

Could give us spirits, for we talked of him

And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim;

525

And we agreed his was some dreadful ill

Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,

By a dear friend; some deadly change in love

Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of;

For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot

530

Of falsehood on his mind which flourished not

But in the light of all-beholding truth;

And having stamped this canker on his youth

She had abandoned him — and how much more

Might be his woe, we guessed not — he had store

535

Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess

From his nice habits and his gentleness;

These were now lost . . . it were a grief indeed

If he had changed one unsustaining reed

For all that such a man might else adorn.

540

The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn;

For the wild language of his grief was high,

Such as in measure were called poetry;

And I remember one remark which then

Maddalo made. He said: ‘Most wretched men

545

Are cradled into poetry by wrong,

They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’

If I had been an unconnected man,

I, from this moment, should have formed some plan

Never to leave sweet Venice — for to me

550

It was delight to ride by the lone sea;

And then, the town is silent — one may write

Or read in gondolas by day or night,

Having the little brazen lamp alight,

Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,

555

Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair

Which were twin-born with poetry, and all

We seek in towns, with little to recall

Regrets for the green country. I might sit

In Maddalo’s great palace, and his wit

560

And subtle talk would cheer the winter night

And make me know myself, and the firelight

Would flash upon our faces, till the day

Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay:

But I had friends in London too: the chief

565

Attraction here, was that I sought relief

From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought

Within me —’twas perhaps an idle thought —

But I imagined that if day by day

I watched him, and but seldom went away,

570

And studied all the beatings of his heart

With zeal, as men study some stubborn art

For their own good, and could by patience find

An entrance to the caverns of his mind,

I might reclaim him from this dark estate:

575

In friendships I had been most fortunate —

Yet never saw I one whom I would call

More willingly my friend; and this was all

Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good

Oft come and go in crowds or solitude

580

And leave no trace — but what I now designed

Made for long years impression on my mind.

The following morning, urged by my affairs,

I left bright Venice.

After many years

And many changes I returned; the name

585

Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same;

But Maddalo was travelling far away

Among the mountains of Armenia.

His dog was dead. His child had now become

A woman; such as it has been my doom

590

To meet with few — a wonder of this earth,

Where there is little of transcendent worth,

Like one of Shakespeare’s women: kindly she,

And, with a manner beyond courtesy,

Received her father’s friend; and when I asked

595

Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked,

And told as she had heard the mournful tale:

‘That the poor sufferer’s health began to fail

Two years from my departure, but that then

The lady who had left him, came again.

600

Her mien had been imperious, but she now

Looked meek — perhaps remorse had brought her low.

Her coming made him better, and they stayed

Together at my father’s — for I played,

As I remember, with the lady’s shawl —

605

I might be six years old — but after all

She left him.’ . . . ‘Why, her heart must have been tough:

How did it end?’ ‘And was not this enough?

They met — they parted.’—‘Child, is there no more?’

‘Something within that interval which bore

610

The stamp of WHY they parted, HOW they met:

Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet

Those wrinkled cheeks with youth’s remembered tears,

Ask me no more, but let the silent years

Be closed and cered over their memory

615

As yon mute marble where their corpses lie.’

I urged and questioned still, she told me how

All happened — but the cold world shall not know.

_45 may Hunt manuscript; can 1824.

_99 a one Hunt manuscript; an one 1824.

_105 sunk Hunt manuscript; sank 1824.

_108 ever Hunt manuscript; even 1824.

_119 in Hunt manuscript; from 1824.

_124 a Hunt manuscript; an 1824.

_171 That Hunt manuscript; Which 1824.

_175 mind Hunt manuscript; minds 1824.

_179 know 1824; see Hunt manuscript.

_188 those Hunt manuscript; the 1824.

_191 their Hunt manuscript; this 1824.

_218 Moons, etc., Hunt manuscript; The line is wanting in editions 1824 and 1839.

_237 far Hunt manuscript; but 1824.

_270 nor Hunt manuscript; and 1824.

_292 cold Hunt manuscript; and 1824.

_318 least Hunt manuscript; last 1824.

_323 sweet Hunt manuscript; fresh 1824.

_356 have Hunt manuscript; hath 1824.

_361 in this keen Hunt manuscript; under this 1824.

_362 cry Hunt manuscript; eye 1824.

_372 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824.

_388 greet Hunt manuscript; meet 1824.

_390 your Hunt manuscript; thy 1824.

_417 his Hunt manuscript; its 1824.

_446 glance Hunt manuscript; glass 1824.

_447 with Hunt manuscript; near 1824.

_467 lip Hunt manuscript; life 1824.

_483 this Hunt manuscript; that 1824.

_493 I would Hunt manuscript; I’d 1824.

_510 despair Hunt manuscript; my care 1839.

_511 leant] See Editor’s Note.

_518 were Hunt manuscript; was 1839.

_525 his Hunt manuscript; it 1824.

_530 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824.

_537 were now Hunt manuscript; now were 1824.

_588 regrets Hunt manuscript; regret 1824.

_569 but Hunt manuscript; wanting in editions 1824 and 1839.

_574 his 1824; this [?] Hunt manuscript.

Cancelled Fragments of Julian and Maddalo.

‘What think you the dead are?’ ‘Why, dust and clay,

What should they be?’ ‘’Tis the last hour of day.

620

Look on the west, how beautiful it is

Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss

Of that unutterable light has made

The edges of that cloud . . . fade

Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,

625

Wasting itself on that which it had wrought,

Till it dies . . . and . . . between

The light hues of the tender, pure, serene,

And infinite tranquillity of heaven.

Ay, beautiful! but when not . . . ’

. . .

630

‘Perhaps the only comfort which remains

Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,

The which I make, and call it melody.’

Note by Mrs. Shelley.

From the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and, circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks in the neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord Byron, who lent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he sent for his family from Lucca to join him.

I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent, demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was situated on the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a range of higher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from the hall-door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, which Shelley made his study, and in which he began the “Prometheus”; and here also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote “Julian and Maddalo”. A slight ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the hill, on which stood the ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the crescent moon sunk behind the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apennines, while to the east the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut-wood, at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new abode.

Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we soon suffered even more severely, happened here. Our little girl, an infant in whose small features I fancied that I traced great resemblance to her father, showed symptoms of suffering from the heat of the climate. Teething increased her illness and danger. We were at Este, and when we became alarmed, hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we arrived at Fusina, we found that we had forgotten our passport, and the soldiers on duty attempted to prevent our crossing the laguna; but they could not resist Shelley’s impetuosity at such a moment. We had scarcely arrived at Venice before life fled from the little sufferer, and we returned to Este to weep her loss.

After a few weeks spent in this retreat, which was interspersed by visits to Venice, we proceeded southward.

http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/shelley/percy_bysshe/s54cp/volume6.html

Last updated Wednesday, March 5, 2014 at 22:30