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NARRATIVE TECHNIQUE IN BYRON'S ORIENTAL ROMANCES
by
CHERYL RICHARDSON PETERSON, B.A.
A THESIS
IN
ENGLISH
Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of Texas Tech University in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of
MASTER OF ARTS
Aonroved
August, 1970
i^ 1^
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter
I. INTRODUCTION 1
II. EXPERIMENTS IN VIEWPOINT 21
General Criticism 21
The Giaour 27
The Siege of Corinth 53
III. FOCUS ON CHARACTERIZATION 70
The Corsair 70
Lara 86
IV. VENTURES IN DRAMA 101
The Bride of Abydos 101
Parisina 115
V. CONCLUSION 129
BIBLIOGRAPHY 133
11 CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
In March, 1812, Cantos I and II of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage first appeared in print. The immediate and overwhelming popularity of this work thrust its author, George Gordon, Lord Byron, to a pinnacle of fame. For the next four years Byron's fortune continued at high
tide, and, despite his fleeting moods and sarcastic wit, he became
the pampered genius of London society. This period of Byron's life was one of fashionable dress balls and numerous romantic liaisons,
culminating so disastrously in his marriage to Annabella Milbanke.
Occupied as he was V7ith social duties and romantic attachments, Byron
gave little thought to a systematic development of his poetic art.
Nevertheless, between 1813 and 1816 a total of six rather substantial works by Byron were published and added significantly to the poet's
popularity and reputation. The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The
Corsair, Lara, The Siege of Corinth, and Parisina were these six poems.
Together they form a group frequently referred to as Byron's romances
or Oriental tales.
The reputation of these tales during the poet's lifetime
depended to a great extent upon the popular literary tastes of the
age and upon the novelty of Byron's personality. Martha Conant and
Marie E. deMeester have published separate studies outlining the sources and causes of eighteenth and nineteenth century interest in
Oriental subjects. While the general reading public was probably unconscious of a special interest in Eastern lore, its rapid consump tion of exotic reading material did not escape contemporary literary 2 analysis. But Byron, although knowledgeable of these trends, exploited Eastern topics more from personal absorption rather than literary convention. Childe Harold, based upon Byron's own Mediter ranean travels from 1809-1811, and The Giaour, centered upon an adventure of Byron's in Greece, were products of reality as well as imagination. Considering Byron's reputation at the time prior to the publication of Childe Harold, however, it would be difficult to sepa rate the sudden popularity of these works from the vogue surrounding the mysterious East.
In addition to their treatment of intriguing subject matter, the Oriental tales also found public acceptance because of their basic form. Although romantic narrative verse received little attention in the eighteenth century, it experienced a revival in the nineteenth.
Stimulated by the bold emotions of the French Revolution and the exciting deeds of Napoleon Bonaparte, the public of Byron's time
"Slartha Conant, The Oriental Tale in England in the Eighteenth Century (New York: Macmillan, 1908) and Marie E. deMeester, Oriental Influences in the English Literature of the Early Nineteenth Century, Anglistische Forschungen, Vol. XLVI (Heidelberg: Carl Winter, 1915). 2 In a letter to Thomas Moore, August 28, 1813, Byron wrote: "Stick to the East;—the oracle, Stael, told me it was the only poetical policy. The North, South, and West, have all been exhausted; but from the East, we have nothing but Southey's unsaleables." The Works of Lord Byron: Letters and Journals, edited by Rowland E. Pro- thero, II (New York: Octagon Books, Inc., 1966), p. 255. (Hereinafter referred to as Letters and Journals.) responded with eager imagination to adventure stories. Medieval romances of knightly valor kindled a new spark of enthusiasm. Ballads, with their quaintness of language, simplicity of form, and sometimes exotic use of superstition and strange custom, intrigued readers.
The prose narrative of the novel, emerging from its birth pangs, was attracting more attention. Set within this literary atmosphere and within the general tradition of the romance narrative, Byron's stories could not fail to succeed. That they succeeded so rapidly is probably also a direct .result of the interest surrounding his immediate prede cessor and future competitor. Sir Walter Scott, Although Byron's tales have an undeniable originality, they have many features in common with
Scott's historical narratives and the conventions of certain gothic 3 novels by Mrs. Anne Radcliffe. These similarities allowed Byron to profit from an esteem already granted to fanciful tales.
Byron's Oriental romances soon exceeded Scott's narratives in popularity. Clement T. Goode remarks upon the greater intensity and
facility of Byron's verse as well as the simplicity and constant 4 motion of the plots as reasons for Byron's greater artistry. He also mentions that Byron was distinguished from other writers for concen trating each of his romances on one dark hero whose passions are subjective and intense. It was probably this "dark hero" and his
3 For a full discussion of Byron's debt to medieval romance, gothic novel, and Scott see Clement T. Goode, "Byron's Early Romances: A Study" (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Vanderbilt University, 1959), chapter I. 4 Goode, p. 148.
^Ibid, psychological conflicts which carried the poet to his highest popular ity with nineteenth century readers. Brooding and solitary, obscure in background and frustrated in love, the Byronic hero of these early narratives was quickly identified with the enigmatic personality of the poet himself. Byron's protests to the contrary only increased his readers' speculation and interest. Leslie Marchand relates an incident surrounding one of Byron's adoring female admirers whom the poet finally agreed to meet, although he was thereafter plagued by her numerous letters. Other devotees were less fortunate but equally adamant. While this romantic fascination with Byron and his myster ious heroes soon waned, the close association of the poet with his writings has played an important role in all criticism up to the present day.
Twentieth century viewpoints of the Oriental romances have usually reflected two basic modes of Byron criticism. W. Paul Elledge states that one school of thought regards the poetry as ". . .a melo- dramatized diary brimful of the author's loneliness, despair, guilt, and eloquent theatricality." Supporting this opinion are, of course, many of Byron's o\m. words which give the impression that his poetic composition was merely a leisure occupation bereft of conscious inten
tion. Indeed, the very brief time span required to compose each of
Leslie A. Marchand, Byron: A Biography, I (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1957), pp. 453-454.
W. Paul Elledge, Byron and the Dynamics of Metaphor (Nash ville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1968), p. 3. the tales seems to make them especially prone to this type of inter pretation. Edward Vulliamy contends, however, that to rely too much
on Byron's comments is to be taken in by a pose necessitated by the
social attitudes of the time. Writing was not a proper occupation
for a gentleman, Vulliamy adds: "If a nobleman wrote poetry it was
necessary either for him to apologize or else to treat his work as
the pastime of idle hours, a pastime involving no trouble and entirely o
dissociated from anything so vulgar as literary ambition."
While almost all critics concede that biographical information
cannot be separated entirely from Byron's works, Paul West appears to
be the most avid spokesman for critics who consider the connection of
Byron's life and works of primary importance. He observes: "It is
Byron and Byron's idea of himself which hold his work together, just
as that idea enthralled Europe and summed up under the heading of 9 Byronism a variety of European obsessions." In remarking upon the "difficulty" of responding to Byron, he says: "We respond to his
temperament: not to his philosophy, for he has none; nor to his plots,
which are vapid; nor to his wisdom, which is facetious; nor to his
knowledge, which is disorganized." Such sentiments, although they
point up areas where Byron is considered weak, seem too extreme in
o Calwyn Edward Vulliamy, Byron: With _a View of the Kingdom of Cant and £ Dissection of the Byronic Hero (London: Michael Joseph, 1948), p. 119. (Hereinafter referred to as Byron.) 9 Paul West, ed., Byron: A Collection of Critical Essays
(Englewood Cliffs, N. J.: Prentice-Hall, 1963), p. 2.
Ibid., p. 3. these particular statements to be valid. One wonders at the continued popularity of Byron's poetry if it presents nothing more substantial than a picture of an unusual personality.
Most critics of recent years have relegated the poet's per sonal history to the background of their interpretations and have begun to undertake what Elledge calls ". . .a primarily aesthetic 11 investigation of the poetry." Consequently, there is now a plethora of interesting and diversive ideas concerning the artistic motives and methods observable in the poetry itself. Byron, whose work and person suffered greatly from the moralizing of the Victorian era, has regained his claim to artistic integrity in the hands of tv/entieth century 12 scholars. This paper will be devoted primarily to this aesthetic
type of critical analysis, focusing upon the narrative structure of six poems: The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, Lara, The
Siege of Corinth, and Parisina. Biographical material will not be overlooked, however, when it offers an additional perspective into
textual elucidation.
The purpose of this paper is to explore and evaluate the narrative technique used by Byron in his Oriental romances. Several significant studies have already been made on this subject, notably
Elledge, Byron and the Dynamics of Metaphor, p. 4.
Ibid. ^ »^
by William Marshall, Robert Gleckner, Jerome McGann, Karl Kroeber, and 13 Clement Goode. Most of the gentlemen intersperse their structural
critiques with thematic considerations. While the close relationship
between meaning and method is always an important consideration in an
examination of all literature, I shall try, as much as possible, to
confine this study to a discussion of structural or technical aspects
only. Because complications arise almost immediately if terminology
is misleading or vaguely conceived, a definition of narrative poetry
and narrative technique is necessary before attempting to apply specific
considerations directly to Byron's romances.
Narrative poetry, while it is generally distinguished from
lyric and dramatic poetry, defies a precise classification. Good
literature, no matter what the genre, is always elusive. Narrative
poetry, even avoiding consideration of the author's whim, likewise
partakes of this elusiveness. "Form in poetry," as W. P. Ker remarks,
"is often merely an aspect, something one takes for convenience of
understanding and then lets go." He proceeds to discuss how the
13 William Marshall, The Structure of Byron's Major Poems (Phil adelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1962); Robert F. Gleckner, Byron and the Ruins of Paradise (Baltimore: John Hopkins Press, 1967); Jerome J. McGann, Fiery Dust: Byron's Poetic Development (Chicago: Uni versity of Chicago Press, 1968); Karl Kroeber, Romantic Narrative Art (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1960); Clement Tyson Goode, "Byron's Early Romances; A Study" (Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Vanderbilt University, 1959). W. P. Ker, Form and Style in Poetry, ed. by R. W. Chambers (London: Macmillan and Co., Limited, 1928), p. 286. f
8
feeling or emotion of lyric poetry and the dialogue of dramatic verse
are inevitably linked to narrative poetry. Ker also contends that
narrative poetry relying heavily on a lyric quality is a ", . , poetry
that distills, that gets the essence, sacrificing everything to feeling,
here the feeling of anticipation, of mingled hope and dread." Dra
matic narrative depends on a concentrated use of dialogue, the limits
of which lay with the individual poet's skill in manuevering rime and
1 fi rhythm to speech patterns. Nevertheless, there are certain distinc tive features which help to identify narrative poetry.
In the less sophisticated romances and ballads of the medieval
period, Goode says that "adventure for its own sake" was one of the
most prominent characteristics of narrative poetry. Events were
arranged skillfully in a manner designed to sustain suspense. Without
direction and discretion on the part of the storyteller, however, these
tales could degenerate into a haphazard series of incidents. Perhaps
for this reason the role of the storyteller became increasingly impor
tant. Ker observes:
It [narrative poetry] holds the audience like the fairy tale, through adventures, still more through the mind of the poet and his feeling. . . . Hence it is found that some of the most successful narrative poems are those in which the temper ament of the author is most strongly felt.18
•'-^Ibid., p. 290.
•'•^Ibid., pp. 158-159.
17Goode , "Byron's Early Romances; A Study," p. 2. 1 8 Ker, Form and Style in Poetry, p. 283. By varying the points of view, the storyteller can manipulate his audience and create an air of tension by a subtle interpretation of events. Still another characteristic of narrative poetry, and that which Karl Kroeber lists as the outstanding factor when contrasting narrative to lyric or dramatic verse, ". . . is its movement, its 19 flow in time." These three ingredients, then, adventure (plot), / the storyteller, and flow in time are those which distinguish the
fabric of narrative poetry from other types of verse.
In the twentieth century, narrative poetry has been outdis
tanced and superceded by narrative prose, the short story and the novel. When critics today speak of narrative technique, they are
thinking of it as applied to the longer and, frequently, more complex
developments of the recent novel. Nevertheless, a major portion of
their considerations deal with the same three characteristics of nar
rative mentioned above. One area to which they give significantly
more attention, however, is characterization. As adventure and sus-
penseful events gradually dwindled in importance, the protagonist, who had been either unimportant or merely a stereotyped version of the
hero, heroine, or villain, assumed a place of prominence. Because
Byron's heroes are so much more individualistic than those of his
contemporaries, modern criticism of narrative technique has some
relevance to this analysis of the Oriental tales. Characterization
as well as increasingly sophisticated inquiries into point of view.
19 Kroeber, Romantic Narrative Art, p. 6. 10 plot, time, pace, form, setting, and style offer valuable insights which must be explored to properly evaluate Byron's place within the realm of narrative poetry.
A first consideration should be the clarification of what is meant by "technique." Although the term encompasses a variety of smaller considerations which can be rather precisely defined, Mark
Schorer offers an interesting and comprehensible general orientation:
For technique is the means by which the writer's experience, which is his subject matter, compels him to attend to it; technique is the only means he has of discovering, exploring, developing his subject, of conveying its meaning, and finally, of evaluating it. . . .the writer capable of the most exacting technical scrutiny of his subject matter will produce works of the most satisfying content, works with thickness and resonance, works which reverberate, works with maximum meaning.^^
In other words, technique is that which allows content to blossom into
art, Schorer is very emphatic in believing that only through technique
can the subject matter of a work achieve any meaning: "Technique alone
objectifies the materials of art; hence technique alone evaluates 21 those materials." The reader's comprehension of an idea and his willingness to rate it as successful depend upon whether or not it is
skillfully presented.
The specific terminology of technique usually encompasses the
consideration of point of view, form, pace, characterization, time,
setting, plot, and style in a piece of literature. Each of these
categories plays an important role in the composition of a narrative
20 Mark Schorer, "Technique as Discovery," The Hudson Review, I (Spring, 1948), 67.
^•"•Ibid., 73. ^
11
story, although one or two may seem to dominate in a particular work.
For the purposes of this study, the components of narrative technique
will be examined separately to provide initial clarity, but because
the final effect of a work is achieved through a balance and inter
action of all the parts, no one category should be regarded as
exclusive of influence by the others. Although some stories naturally
seem stronger in a certain area and exploit one technique above the
rest, their success as narrative depends on the presence of all the
other aspects of technique in some degree. For example, characteriza
tion without plot or flow in time is nothing more than a descriptive
character sketch.
If any one aspect of narrative technique can be considered as
determining or guiding the rest, the author's point of view (or points
of view) would have to claim this distinction. By selecting the point
of view from which he will present his material, the author indicates
a basic attitude or orientation toward his subject matter that will
influence other structural considerations plus the final meaning and
interpretation of the work. The attitude he adopts through a point of
view depends, in the opinion of Wayne Booth, on his conception of the 22 purpose, function or effect that he wishes his writing to reflect.
Most writers employ one of three basic viewpoints in telling a story.
Some, as is occasionally the case with Byron, achieve a certain effect
by the use of many shifting viewpoints, employing a combination of the
three types. The basic viewpoints are the omniscient viewpoint, the
22 Wayne Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961), p. 57. T 12 23 major character viewpoint, and the minor character viewpoint.
The omniscient or panoramic view, as it is sometimes called,
is the most commonly employed angle used by the narrative writer.
From this point of view the author can comment without restriction
on the inner or outer behavior of his characters. He need not limit
his observations to one particular character but is able to look into
the minds of all. Robie Macauley and George Lanning comment that
"... the whole secret of this particular art of narration is its
power of metamorphosis." Nevertheless, there are situations in
which the omniscient narrator is somewhat disadvantaged. Because he
has given evidence that he is all-seeing and all-knowing, the narrator
cannot conceal any important information without betraying discrep
ancies in his position. According to Thomas Uzzell, the omniscient
angle is unable to ". . . produce the suspense which depends upon
withholding from a character information of importance to that char- 25 acter in the story." The omniscient point of view can also become
dull and overbearing if the author indulges in a disproportionate
amount of interpretive or generalizing comments instead of allowing
the actions or expressions of the characters to carry the meaning.
23 This terminology is used by Thomas H. Uzzell in Narrative Technique (3rd ed.; New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1943), pp. 413-418. 0/ Robie Macauley and George Lanning, Technique in Fiction (New York: Harper and Row, 1964), p. 112. 25 Uzzell, Narrative Technique, p. 415. 13
It is best adapted for narrative which is swift, obvious and chro nological.
Either the first or third person form may be used when the
author selects the major character viewpoint. This particular approach V '''
is valuable in discerning the psychological and emotional responses
of a character as he participates in various experiences. If an
author wishes to emphasize characterization more than story plot or
other aspects of technique, this point of view proves especially
interesting.
Perhaps the most versatile point of view is that of the minor
character. When a writer uses the omniscient viewpoint, his personal
involvement in the story qualifies the validity of his observations.
By creating a separate narrator distinct from his oxm personality, the
author sacrifices his prerogative of interior exploration for a sense
of realism or suspense. Macauley and Lanning observe that because the
minor character has no super-human abilities, he must rely upon "...
the cruder tools of attempted mind reading or insight." He presents
the story on a real-life level that the reader might also observe vjere
he to be in the same position. One subtlety of this angle that must
not be overlooked is the peculiar personality of this narrator-agent
(term used by Macauley and Lanning). Generally, he should be a rela
tively simple character who will not intrude and allow his own tempera
ment to disrupt the essential direction of the story. On the other
hand, an author who has a particular interpretive or didactic purpose
96 Macauley and Lanning, Technique in Fiction, p. 105. 14 to promote will consciously develop the personality of his narrator- agent to make possible a peculiarly slanted viewpoint. As William
Marshall points out, this technique is useful in evoking dramatic irony; the reader becomes aware of the discrepancy between reality 27 and the narrator's assumptions of reality.
Percy Lubbock develops a different focus regarding point of view and almost equates point of view with what other critics would refer to as story form or structure. Instead of associating point of view with the narrator of a story (who tells it), Lubbock directs his
comments on viewpoint toward an analysis of the manner of presentation
(how it is told). His concept distinguishes between two different ways
28 of treating material, the "pictorial" and the "dramatic." The dra matic manner of presentation (also called the "scenic") is easily identified as consisting of story passages related by the characters in dialogue. In such passages the narrator disappears and permits the characters to speak for themselves. The pictorial viewpoint is more panoramic in scope and, he says, inclines ". . . to the reflection of 29 somebody's mind." This method of picture-making enables the novelist
to cover great spaces of time and quantities of human experience in a 30 summary fashion. In Lubbock's conception, then, two points of vision
27 Marshall, The Structure of Byron's Major Poems, p. 21. 28 Percy Lubbock, The Craft of Fiction (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1921), p. 69. 29 Ibid., p. 115. ^^Ibid., p. 118. 15 are possible: the dramatic, a position straight in front of the action, and the pictorial, a position from a higher and more commanding level.
The balance of these two viewpoints in any given narrative is that which determines the story's form.
If point of view as a narrative technique is subject to a variety of interpretations, then form must be approached as a tech nique even more difficult to define. Percy Lubbock offers this suggestion: "The best form is that which makes the most of its subject— 31 there is no other definition of the meaning of form in fiction." His comment is directed to prose writing, of course, and in analyzing a work of poetry, a person can at least come to some sort of conclusion by labeling the verse form according to predetermined patterns of rime and rhythm. Nevertheless, even in poetry this kind of classification does not really give a picture of the overall structure and format of the work. For this reason, many critics have adopted the terms "dra matic" and "pictorial" as a basic means of identifying the form of a work. Many variations of degree are possible between these extremes,
Eric Enholm offers the following three-fold division regarding the types of story structure:
1) Dramatic: a dependent interlocking sequence of scenes leading to a definite conclusive solution of a specific problem, 2) Episodic story: a series of disconnected scenes with transitional narration building up to a final climax. 3) Epic: narration covering a long period of time.-^
31 Ibid,, p. 40. 32 Eric Enholm, Basic Story Structure (St. Petersburg, Florida: Bayside Publishing Company, 1963), p. 74. 1
16
As a matter of consistency and easy reference, this particular
analysis of structure will provide the basis for further discussions
of form in this paper.
The same concepts used in determining the form of a work are
considered when the pace of a narrative is evaluated. The writer's
decision to make his story either more dramatic or more pictorial
is, to a great extent, necessitated by his subject matter, his purpose,
and his individual narrative style. Any author who is also interested
in stimulating audience appeal will choose his mode of presentation
with pace in mind as well. R. Warwick Bond offers this advice:
Narrative, whether in prose or verse, demands variety of pitch. ... A long poem should have passages or stretches of lower poetic power, both to give author and reader some thing of a rest, and to throw the higher pitched passages into bolder relief.-^-^
Dramatic presentation, according to Macauley and Lanning, is very
intense because it ". . . enables the reader to participate in the
process of the story by exerting his own reason." An overuse of
this technique, however, fatigues the reader and dims dramatic effec
tiveness in moments of important conflict. Likewise, a story told
entirely in narrative bores the reader by removing him from active
participation in a scene. A scene can be ruined by interrupting or
33 R. Warwick Bond, "The Art of Narrative Poetry," Essays by Divers Hands, Being the Transactions of the Royal Society of Literature of the United Kingdom, edited by Edmund Gosse, IV (London: Oxford University Press, 1924), 67-68. 34 Macauley and Lanning, Technique in Fiction, p. 143. 17 preceding it with a redundant narrative generalization that should 35 be left to the reader. Narrative is most effective when it evolves from or prepares for a scene by pointing to a new direction in the plot. Ideally, a narrative which is reasonably lengthy offers a balanced proportion of both dramatic and narrative presentation.
Characterization, setting, and time cannot claim a great deal of attention as separate techniques because their contributions to a narrative depend so heavily upon the techniques of point of view,
form, and pace. Although some stories concentrate more on plot,
theme or atmosphere rather than character analysis, it is, neverthe
less, usually the human response of the characters from which the
reader takes his guidelines for interpretation. Therefore, every author, despite his desired story emphasis, must present his characters
skillfully. Other than direct characterization through dialogue or
action, an author usually creates his story personalities through
description. W. P. Ker contends that description should not attempt
too detailed an analysis at any one time, but should rather concentrate
on an intermittent gesture or sentence (perhaps point up a specific 36 trait) for character expression. An idea expressed by Elizabeth
Bowen offers a good general rule regarding characterization: "Action
of a character should be unpredictable before it has been shown,
Ibid, 36 W. P. Ker, Epic and Romance (London: Macmillan and Company, Limited, 1926), p. 245. 18 37 inevitable when it has been shown." Even under the control of an omniscient narrator, a character should be allowed to develop in the reader's eyes.
Setting, like characterization, makes frequent use of descrip tion, and again the writer must be careful not to tell the reader too much. Macauley and Lanning warn that an exotic scene can easily turn 38 a story into a travelogue. Usually, the physical surrounding serves as a backdrop for the action, Elizabeth Bowen suggests that a scene is most interesting, however, ", . . where it can be shown or at least 39 felt to act upon action or character." In some instances, scene creates an atmosphere which becomes the primary emphasis of the story.
The time line of a narrative is closely aligned with its pace.
A straightforward progression of events in chronological order has obvious limits in holding reader interest, but this method does at least arrange events in a logical and readily understandable manner.
Flashbacks in time are acceptable if they illuminate present happenings in some significant way; as diversionary tactics in varying pace they are merely distracting. Macauley and Lanning stress that no matter what time sequence the writer chooses, ". . .he should be prepared to make his stresses, his meanings, his pattern of life occur in accordance
37 Elizabeth Bowen, Collected Impressions (New York: Alfred Knopf, 1950), p. 252. 38 Macauley and Lanning, Technique in Fiction, p. 138. 39 Bowen, Collected Impressions, p. 254. 1
19
with value-time. And, to do that, he must know his values."^^ If an
author seeks to stimulate his audience, he organizes his time line
around events containing valuable story development rather than
around any strict conception of chronological order or any whimsies of
pace.
The arrangement of a plot sequence centers around four patterns
of treating subject matter, as defined by Uzzell. These are character,
complication, atmosphere, and theme. When a writer selects one of
these methods to fulfill a purpose he has in mind, he also selects the
type of incidents and scenes which will best illustrate his idea.
Regardless of his choice, the key to a successful plot lies not in
story content but in the arrangement of this content. A plot must
always be reasoned and logical; it must exhibit cause and effect. A
definition offered by Macauley and Lanning is: "One event forces an
other to occur or one happening causes something hitherto withheld to
be revealed. The plot is always a matter of situation as it undergoes 42 change and development." A plot in which events happen by chance
or coincidence is considered melodramatic and second-rate. The classic
pattern of plot development includes: an initiating action to establish
the conflict; a series of complicating actions to heighten emotion
surrounding the conflict; a climactic action to present the conflict
in a moment of dramatic confrontation; and a concluding action to
resolve the outcome of the conflict.
Macauley and Lanning, Technique in Fiction, p. 157.
Uzzell, Narrative Technique, p. 104.
/ 9 Macauley and Lanning, Technique in Fiction, p. 159. 20
The style of a narrative work is frequently open to unusual debate because so much of its analysis depends upon the personal taste of the examiner. Consequently, the best guide for judging style is to consider its appropriateness in treating the subject matter. Style should neither be so elegant nor so awkward that it distracts attention from the narrative. Many of the weaknesses sometimes observed in the other aspects of technique can be attributed to style. An author must constantly guard against indulging his own ego at the expense of his story. In determining the artistic merit of a literary work, style is often the more or less intangible technique which distinguishes great ness from mediocrity.
\^ile technique is never the only consideration necessary for evaluating a work, it is certainly an important consideration. To examine a piece of narrative literature without taking technique into account is to judge a musical composition without considering the tech nical ability of the performing artist. In both cases, the analysis would be extremely superficial. Byron's romances are not commonly regarded as masterpieces of successful narrative technique. As simple tales with an exotic flavor, they customarily serve as the beginning point in a discussion of the Byronic hero. But if this Byronic hero is so notably exhibited in the Oriental romances, then he must owe at least part of his fame to Byron's manner of presenting him. It is my desire to prove that on the merits of narrative technique alone, Byron's
Oriental tales are more interesting and provocative than many critics believe. 1
CHAPTER II
EXPERIMENTS IN VIEWPOINT
General Criticism
The criticism surrounding Byron's Oriental romances has pro
liferated in the last twenty years. Many critics have taken the time
to examine the individual tales in depth; others have concentrated upon
one tale in particular or have referred to the tales in general. In
order to place the romances in a proper perspective, an overall view
of their merits as a body of Byron's poetic literature is necessary.
Although each of the tales reveals an interesting development of Byron's
narrative technique, it is probably their general characteristics as a
group that have most influenced critical scholarship.
In his book. Romantic Narrative Art, Karl Kroeber surveys the
narrative writings of the more celebrated poets of the Romantic and
Pre-romantic periods in English literature. His observations offer a
broad perspective on these poets in relation to the whole era of Roman
tic thought. Outwardly, he says. Romantic narrative can be identified
according to its stress on ". . . pictorial beauty, timelessness, and
stylization of character." Closer inspection shows that these narra
tives revolve around inner fantasy or some moral principle rather than
any complex notion of character development or plot. As a result, the
actions seem artificially arranged, the characters are static, and the
Kroeber, p. 66.
21 22 unity of the piece depends upon the narrator's grasp of events.
Kroeber claims that the primary aim of the Romantic narratives is to emphasize moral behavior as a temporal process, and not as a set rule or situation: "Romantics found in the poetic tale an effective means for asserting that truths of intuitive art surpass anything that can be achieved by the methods of rationalistic science." While Kroeber's generalizations may not be entirely applicable to Byron, they do supply a backdrop against which other ideas can be viewed.
Byron's critics have commented upon all the aspects of his narrative technique, but his approach to characterization has provoked undoubtedly the largest response. Peter Thorslev, in a study of the
Byronic hero, says that "... all of these romances depend primarily on their protagonists, rather than on plot or verse, for their effect."
The sentiment is not an unusual one, and other critics stress the fact that Byron is adventurous among nineteenth century storytellers for giving his characters such importance that plot becomes subservient.
Despite the prominence of his characters, Byron's skill in presenting them is little praised. Byron's particular method of psychological probing of the characters' minds is acclaimed for its uniqueness, but its success reaches only a limited level because the poet (in the posi tion of narrator) preserves no detachment from his heroes. Andrew
Rutherford objects to Byron's method for thematic and moral reasons.
2 Ibid., p. 70. 3 Ibid., p. 69. 4 Peter Thorslev, The Byronic Hero; Types and Prototypes (Minne apolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1962), p. 147. w
23
He says: "We are invited to identify ourselves with them [the heroes],
and the voice of the narrator brings in no effective standards by
which they are to be judged." Byron's subjective orientation con
sequently tends to emphasize the attractiveness of the evil which
surrounds his heroes and appears to sanction the pride, defiance,
rebellion, and vengeance that comprise the major portion of their
personalities.
On the other hand, several interpreters dislike Byron's
characterization for purely technical reasons. The heroes of each
romance can be identified by one overwhelming sentiment—pride.
Other peculiar characteristics of the individual heroes vary only
insignificantly from romance to romance. They are all men shrouded
in mystery with hints of concealing strange secrets. Paul West
remarks: "The consequence is that they evoke a stereotype and start
from melodrama." This stereotyped effect can be attributed some
what to Byron's non-dramatic form of presentation which always keeps
his heroes removed from a close scrutiny by the reader. Although the
characters sometimes express thoughts which may be their own, Byron,
in the opinion of Clement Goode, keeps a strong rein so that the out
come of the action is precisely as he plans. Although Byron's heroes
Andrew Rutherford, Byron: A Critical Study (Stanford: Stan ford University Press, 1961), p. 44.
Paul West, Byron and the Spoiler's Art (London: Chatto and Windus, 1960), p. 94.
Goode, "Byron's Early Romances; A Study," p. 292. 24 cannot be praised for conforming to typical literary types, it would be unjust to condemn Byron for simply following the trends of his age. Like most characters in Romantic literature, Byron's heroes become symbols or abstractions of revolt and sinful courage. A troubled personality himself, Byron experienced many of the conflicts of his characters. In addition, Vulliamy contends that ". . .we have to remind ourselves that they are also the representatives of a mode, a fashion, a conventional type of romantic desperado whose pedigree is obvious—they are as much the children of Mrs. Radcliffe as of
Byron."^
Byron's characterization is, of course, only the most obvious manifestation of his narrative technique. If his presentation of character is weak, then the fault must lie with some other aspects of technique as well. Byron's use of point of view is more subtle than some critics assert, but an unusual amount of philosophizing throughout the tales leaves the impression that the poet nearly always assumes omniscience. Such an attitude naturally limits the reader's involvement, especially when the formal structure of a story is as basically undramatic as critics claim Byron's to be.
Most commentators give Byron some credit for the power and vividness attached to scenes of emotional conflict. In this respect, at least, the poet tries to leave an impression of dramatic confronta tion. Paul West speaks for many critics when he states that the impression is not enough. He comments:
g Vulliamy, Byron, p. 126. 25
There is a world of difference between an intensely dramatic situation and one that seems intensified by allusion to a general pattern. The first type of situation always looks— ^ in terms of art, that is—immediate; the second, at one remove.
In G. Wilson Knight's opinion, "... a field of dramatic meaning has not been generated. . . . incidents and persons accordingly lose generalized significance and stature." Basically, the problem is
Byron's own personality, which keeps intruding to condition all the events of a story. Karl Kroeber insists that the tales exhibit such
extravagant emotion, they can only be classified as melodrama.
Despite the validity of these unfavorable comments, other viewpoints
deserve attention.
One of Byron's early reviewers obviously thinks that the poet has dramatic potential. He says:
We . , . would humbly suggest to him to do away with reproach of the age by producing a tragic drama of the old English school of poetry and pathos. He has all the air, we think, of being the knight for whom the accomplishment of that great adventure is reserved.-'-'^
On the contemporary scene, critic William Marshall defends the tales
9 West, The Spoiler's Art, p. 94. G. Wilson Knight, "The Two Eternities" in Byron; A Collection of Critical Essays, edited by Paul West (Englewood Cliffs, N. J.: Pren tice-Hall, 1963), p. 22.
Kroeber, Romantic Narrative Art, p. 143. 12 [Francis Jeffrey], Review of The Corsair: A Tale, by Lord Byron, and The Bride of Abydos: A Turkish Tale, by Lord Byron, in the Edinburgh Review, XXIII (April, 1814), 229. 26 as the means by which Byron "... developed the dramatic and ironic
techniques that were to be used with greatest aesthetic integrity in 13 Don Juan," Considering that the Oriental romances appeared early in
Byron's artistic career, many critics do not expect them to have the
perfection of his later endeavors.
Additional evaluation of Byron's narrative technique results
in a fairly well-balanced treatment of his strengths and weaknesses.
Most critics agree along general lines regarding pace, plot, and
setting. Too many contemplative digressions clutter the romances and
keep the pace from moving quickly. The colorful and appealing subject
matter captivates the reader, but the arrangement of plot into rather
distinct episodes with little causal relationship diminishes the vital
feeling of progressive excitement. Setting, although somewhat con
trived, fulfills a very important position in carrying through thematic
motifs. Style, unfortunately, cannot be summarized so easily. Instead,
a typically diversive quantity of interpretation requires attention.
G, Wilson Knight is in the minority when he asserts: "The poetic
vigor of each narrative, depending on choice and exact statement rather
than abstruse analogy or magic sound, never fails." Oliver Elton
seriously disagrees with such sentiments and vehemently criticizes
Byron's technique of personification and "... his beloved detestable
•'"^Marshall, The Structure of Byron's Major Poems^, p. 21.
•^^Knight, "The Two Eternities," p. 20. 27 italics with their false emphasis that covers the want of art.""'"^
Today, Byron's verse forms, the octosyllabic couplet and the heroic couplet, seem somewhat stiff in their use of conventional eighteenth century phraseology. Even to his nineteenth century critics, Byron's style was "... sometimes quaint and affected, and more frequently strained, harsh and abrupt." On occasion, Byron tries to vary his mood or tone by alternating passages written in different meters. In this regard, Kroeber makes an observation that may sum up a great deal of Byron's technique in the Oriental romances. He says: "The art of these early adventure stories, in short, is an art of contrasting surfaces." Through a detailed examination of each tale, the value of these opinions will become more apparent.
The Giaour
The Giaour is the earliest of the Oriental romances. It is also probably the most controversial of the tales. Appropriately labeled a "fragment" by Byron himself, the tale presents a bewildering sequence of disjointed scenes which are related without regard to chronological order and vzithout a uniform viewpoint. Part of the tale's perplexing organization lies in the peculiar history of its creation. In its first manuscript form, the tale consisted of 407 lines,
•'"^Oliver Elton, A Survey of English Literature: 1780-1830, II (London: Edward Arnold, 1924), p. 146.
[Jeffrey], 0£. cit., p. 205.
Kroeber, Romantic Narrative Art, p. 143. 28
Between May and November 1813, the poem was published in seven differ
ing editions, each edition adding more lines to the original manuscript
until the final form totaled 1334 lines. William Marshall calls the
structure of the work "accretive," and on this one point every critic 18 can certainly agree. Wlien Byron was writing The Giaour, he was
obviously torn between fulfilling his artistic goals for the work and
assuaging his publisher's impatience with the constant revisions. He
writes to John Murray on August 26, 1813: "I have, but with some
difficulty, not added any more to this snake of a poem, which has been 19 lengthening its rattles every month." While critics have problems
deciding upon an interpretation of the poem's final structure, they
also have difficulties deciding why Byron attempted such a strange
form in the first place.
Prior to the publication of The Giaour, Byron had written a
brief tale, "Oscar of Alva," which was included in Hours of Idleness.
Very straightforward in its presentation of a story line, "Oscar of
Alva" is basically a ballad. Although its introduction and conclusion
are more reflective in style than the typical folk ballad, the form of
the work poses no unusual problems. Even Childe Harold, with its over
abundance of philosophical speculation, proceeds from event to event
in a logical manner. Therefore, Byron's critics are probably correct
in saying that The Giaour's form is not original but is rather modeled
-1 o For a complete discussion of Marshall's vievzs, see The Accretive Structure of Byron's The Giaour." Modern Language Notes, LXXVI (September, 1961), 502-509. 19 Byron, Letters and Journals, II, p. 252. 29 upon The Voyage of Columbus. a story in a fragmentary style written by Samuel Rogers in 1812. Byron's dedication of his tale to Rogers certainly seems to indicate that the two narratives are consciously related to one another. Jerome McGann suggests that the fragmented approach might have appealed to Byron as a means of giving cultural authenticity to the events as well as providing ". . .a means of 20 keeping his inclination to self-dramatization in check." This last reason offers a plausible motivation for Byron's adopting so many dif ferent and conflicting points of view. Because the personality of
Childe Harold had been so quickly identified ^^7ith Byron's own, the poet conceivably viewed Rogers' segmented technique as a good way of achieving an objective approach to the subject matter.
In analyzing The Giaour, William Marshall attempts to evaluate the work not only in its finished form but also in its various stages of development. It is his opinion that Byron's successive additions detract from the overall effectiveness of the original dramatic pres entation found in the first edition: "The substantial differences caused by the expansion of the poem are found most significantly in the diffusion of the structure and the growing inconsistency in the 21 characters of both the fisherman and the Giaour." He is also critical of the increasing didacticism which Byron interpolates into the work.
Contrary to Marshall's way of thinking is the position taken by Robert
20 McGann, Fiery Dust, pp. 142-143. 21 Marshall, "The Accretive Structure of Byron's The Giaour," p. 503. 1
30
Gleckner who views the structure of the work with more regard to
thematic unity than to technical efficiency. According to his
reasoning, "... the additions . . . bolster existing points of 22 view, add others, or elaborate on the overriding themes." He feels
that Byron is not as interested in formulating a consistent narrative 23 thread as in fully relating his ideas. While the people of Byron's
time were less sophisticated in their reactions to the work, they, too,
liked the expanded form, as Marchand remarks, for "the lushness of its
descriptive passages."
As the foregoing opinions illustrate, a decision about Byron's
basic reasons for trying to use the fragmented style of organization
involves a great deal of speculation. Even greater debate attends the
evaluation of Byron's purposes in constantly lengthening the work by
accretion. Probably the most fundamental question still to be asked,
however, concerns whether or not The Giaour, in its completed form,
has an identifiable narrative structure. Assuming that even a conglom
eration of fragments can be classified in some system, this system
needs to be examined in light of Byron's particular treatment of it
and its ultimate success in fulfilling the requirements of good narra
tive technique.
Although Gleckner concentrates rather heavily on technique as
it relates to Byron's philosophical ideals, he also gives many interest
ing technical observations. Toward the beginning of his analysis, he
22 Gleckner, Byron and the Ruins of Paradise, p. 101. 23 Ibid., p. 123. 0/ Marchand, Byron: A Biography, I, p. 400. 31 remarks that The Giaour's main narrative interest is contained not in the plot, "... but rather in the conflicting points of view from which that plot could be viewed." To consider the confusion of seg ments with their changing narrators as a Byronic experiment in the technique of viewpoint, seems in fact the most logical conclusion to
The Giaour's principle of narrative organization. If the standard regulations for logical plot development are applied to the tale, for instance, the romance must be considered a failure, because the cli mactic action occurs long before the end of the tale. Attempting to see any usual pattern in the juggled time line is futile likewise. As a complex combination of several viewpoints, however, the romance offers an unusual and interesting challenge to the reader of narrative.
The consensus is that The Giaour has four distinct narrators who help to tell the story. These narrators are a Moslem fisherman, a Christian monk, the Giaour himself, and an omniscient type of story teller. The separation between the sections of narration and the very noticeable traits and opinions of each speaker leave no doubt that four narrators or four points of view express the action of this tale.
Nevertheless, critics frequently disagree over the precise domain of each narrator, especially the fisherman. Jerome McGann offers a novel approach which seems able to tolerate the idea of several points of view while at the same time proposing a solution to the questions con cerning each narrator's specific lines. He says:
The Giaour really has only one narrator, the ballad singer, who assumes different roles at different moments in his performance
25 Gleckner, Byron and the Ruins of Paradise, p. 97. 32
but who is himself the source of the work's final consistency precisely because he lets us know that he is assuming roles, that the poem is a virtuoso production.^^
This idea is very helpful because it endovzs the work with some sort of
unity and accounts for some strange changes of tense V7ithin the narrated
sections. The presence of a controlling narrator also suggests that The
Giaour's jumbled fragments have a reasoned order, even if this order is not readily discernable or satisfying to the reader.
Before the effect of the narrators can be evaluated, the pecu
liar organization of plot and time in The Giaour needs systematic exam
ination. In broad perspective, the work divides easily into two main
parts. Part one, which is by far the more complex, includes lines
1-786. Part two designates lines 787-1334. The division follows the
time pattern, a lapse of many years occurring between the two parts.
Most of the action of the plot is concentrated in the first part.
Hassan, a Turkish ruler, finds his slave-bride, Leila, guilty of infi
delity and decrees that she be thrown into the sea and drowned (the
traditional punishment). Her lover, the Giaour (Moslem term for Chris
tian infidel) seeks to revenge her death and attacks Hassan as the Turk
and a small band of soldiers cross an isolated terrain on the way to visit Hassan's new bride. The Giaour successfully kills his opponent and disappears. Hassan's court, without a master, disbands and decays gradually. This is the essential story told by a Moslem narrator (the
26 McGann, Fiery Dust, p. 144. This report is in agreement with McGann's idea of a single ballad narrator. Because this narrator assumes such distinct voices in portraying the other narrators, however, the usual manner of reference will distinguish between the four voices as if they were spoken by four different men. 33 fisherman) up to line 786. Although many parts are related in present tense to give an impression of immediacy, the general feeling is of past time, told from a vantage point several months or a year removed from the actual events.
The second part opens upon a discussion between the same fisherman of part one and a Christian monk. Believing that he recog nizes the features of the Giaour in one of the monks, the fisherman inquires about him. In response, the monk tells of the man's strange actions since taking up residence at the monastery several years before.
The final 350 lines consist of the Giaour's dying confession to this monk, in which he relates his tortured existence since losing Leila and killing Hassan, The minimal action of this part is presented as it happens, but, of course, much of it comments upon the events of years past.
As this sketch of the tale indicates, the main conflict of the story and the central core of the plot about which all the other action revolves is the triangular love-hate relationship of Hassan, Leila, and the Giaour. To call this relationship anything more than merely the core of the story is, however, extremely difficult. For one thing, the background of the situation leading up to the conflict of the characters is missing. Mystery overshadows the ansv/er to questions asking from where the Giaour came, why he fell in love with Leila, and why she decided to forsake Hassan for a Christian lover. Secondly, those events that are explained concerning this love triangle are not presented in the order of their development. Lines 277-351 provide a good example. 34
In the section immediately preceding these lines, the fisherman speaks about the strange night when he observed the Giaour and his horse as they paused in flight alongside the seacoast. Although the narrator intimates that the visible hatred and anger in the Giaour's facial expression may be directed toward the participants of a Moslem feast, he makes no specific mention of Hassan. Beginning in line 277, this same fisherman suddenly switches to a later time, and describes the ruin of Hassan's palace, subtly implying that the Giaour has somehow been responsible for the Turk's death. Not until line 351, however, does he relate that Hassan's "... turban was cleft by the infidel's 27 sabre." The reader is still uninformed at this point of the reasons motivating the Giaour's killing of Hassan. Similarly, the next sec tion (lines 352-387) explaining Leila's death is incomprehensible V7hen based only on the previously given information. Consequently, a third observation can be formulated about the plot: it does not actually develop by any logical chain of cause and effect but rather unfolds bit by bit in a haphazard manner.
Included in this third idea is the realization that the climac tic event surrounding the lovers is not the climax of Byron's entire tale. Theoretically, the culmination of the Hassan-Leila-Giaour con flict, which occurs when the Giaour attains his revenge, should be the high point of the entire romance. Byron succeeds in presenting this 27 George Gordon, Lord Byron, The Works of Lord Byron: Poetry, ed. by Ernest Hartley Coleridge, III (New York: Octagon Books, 1966), p. 103. (Hereinafter referred to as Poetry.) Future line references will be from, this edition and will be listed in the text. 35 battle scene between the two men very dramatically, but he does not manage to give it the force of finality. Part of the reason is the scene's location toward the middle of the story—lines 519-688.
Another factor is, as previously cited, the lack of background infor mation leading up to the scene. Most important, however, is the reader's own sensation that this scene really does not settle the main issue of the tale, namely the role of the Giaour himself. As the reader falters along from fragment to fragment, attempting to discern the story line, he discovers himself more and more intrigued by the
Giaour and the narrator's deprecating treatment of the "... false infidel! ..." (1, 747). Thus, while the three-way character con flict provides an initial focus for the story, it is not really the plot. The actual plot development centers on the conflict between the Giaour as he is and the Giaour as other people see him. Essential to this concept is, of course, Byron's characterization of the Giaour and his observers, A close scrutiny, then, of the different points of view will explain much of the tale's narrative technique.
The opening lines of The Giaour, lines 1-179, are not related by the Moslem fisherman who dominates the rest of part one, but rather by the omniscient narrator, who gives a lengthy introduction to the tale. His main function through line 67 is to provide a setting for the work, and this he does with some skill, contrasting the mild and hospitable climate of the Grecian isles with the violent and inhospit able raids carried on by the pirates of the region. Lines 66 and 67 summarize his description: 36
So soft the scene, so formed for joy. So curst the tyrants that destroy!
The concluding portion of the introduction begins in line 68, and it is the next 100 lines (through 167) which strongly communicate the true sentiments of this narrator. The whole effect of this section derives from an extended metaphor (lines 68-89) comparing Greece with a person newly dead. He says of Greece:
Hers is the loveliness in death. That parts not quite with parting breath; But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb. (11. 94-97)
As the narrator continues, he mourns the ancient Grecian freedom now succumbed to Turkish tyranny and chides weakling sons of former heroes:
The fiery souls that might have led Thy sons to deeds sublime, Now crawl from cradle to the Grave, Slaves—nay, the bondsm.en of a Slave,
And callous, save to crime; (11. 148-152)
Quite obviously, the narrator sympathizes with Western thought rather than Eastern, although he is almost as bitterly disgusted with the
Greek lack of resistance as he is angry with the Turkish rule. If the narrator of this section seems too ardently Byronic in his sympathies, his other passages throughout the text are neutral enough to keep him from being simply the poet's mouthpiece. Nevertheless, wherever the omniscient narrator intrudes upon the story, he tends to shape the reactions of the reader to the desired mold of the moment. Although this narrator may not always reflect Byron's thinking, it is primarily through him that Byron controls the tone of the piece.
An interesting example of how the omniscient narrator works in later parts of The Giaour occurs in lines 388-438. The speaker, having 37 interrupted the tale of the fisherman, appears to offer a general remark about the human condition in.the form,of two interesting epic similes. His particular mention of ". . . Beauty, blighted in an hour"
(1. 414) and "The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes" (1. 422) apply very easily, however, to Leila and the Giaour. Although his arguments appear neutral in tone, the rather pessimistic conclusions he draws about "Beauty" and "The Mind" tend to support the fisherman's dislike of Leila and the Giaour. This passage balances lines 1-179, in which the Western ideals of the narrator prejudice (unconsciously perhaps) the reader against the Turkish narrator of the next lines. By seeming to agree with the fisherman, the omniscient narrator of lines 388-438 vitalizes the appeal of the second narrator. Except for the introduc tory lines, the omniscient narrator is a chameleon, adapting his remarks to fit the situation.
The second narrator, the Moslem fisherman, is responsible for 28 lines 180-786. The fragmented quality makes these lines difficult to analyze as a whole. Lines 180-276 comprise a segment basically neutral in tone. The fisherman, who at this point knows nothing about the events connecting the Giaour with Leila or Hassan, relates his first
28 Jerome McGann questions the validity of assigning all of these lines to the fisherman. The many jumps in time and place and small inconsistencies of fact (see 11. 467-72) persuade him that the fisherman speaks only up through line 387. His argument seems correct, but considering that lines 439-786 are also from a Moslem viewpoint, it seems less confusing to regard these t\-JO speakers as one. Therefore, all further references in this paper will identify the Turkish point of view with the fisherman. 38
impressions received on the strange night when he observed the Giaour
rushing along the seacoast on horseback. His comments reveal an inborn
hatred of the Christian but an awesome recognition of the Giaour's
powerful "fiery Passion" as well:
I know thee not, I loathe thy race. But in thy lineaments I trace What Time shall strengthen, not efface:
Right well I view and deem thee one
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. (11. 191-193; 198-199)
Toward the end of this passage, the Moslem digresses from direct obser
vation to speculate on the inner forces governing the Giaour. He
observes of the Giaour:
But in that instant o'er his soul Winters of Memory seemed to roll. And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime. (11. 261-264)
Despite this last hint of an unsavory background, the Giaour seems to
gather more of the reader's attention because of his intriguing
demeanor. The fisherman, on the other hand, by admitting an irra
tional prejudice against Christians, reaps little sympathy.
The next fragment, encompassing lines 277-351, has been pre
viously examined. Here the narrator relates the desolation of Hassan's
palace, eliminating, for the moment, all mention of intervening events.
Changing suddenly from the direct observation of the preceding fragment
to a distanced narration of past events, the fisherman inclines to color
events more according to his own sentiments rather than any objective
standards. At this point, the reader first perceives the degree of this man's Moslem outlook, for the speaker unabashedly reminisces over the 39 cultivated charm of Hassan's luxurious palace, saying that "...
Courtesy and Pity died/ With Hassan on the mountain side" (11.346-7).
The Giaour, who originally inspired the fisherman's awe and respect, now appears as a common criminal. The scene gathers its effect, of course, by revealing the Giaour's murder of Hassan without any mention of the precipitating circumstances. A writer for the Quarterly Review of January, 1814 comments:
He [the fisherman] reveals, as if unintentionally and uncon sciously, the catastrophe of his story: but he thus prepares his appeal to the sympathy of his audience without much diminishing their suspense.29
Although the fisherman may win some approval for his condemnation of the Giaour in this section, the whole story is still too much shadowed in mystery for the reader to make any meaningful judgments.
Lines 352-387 give a dramatic, though at this point unintellig ible, presentation of Leila's death, again from the fisherman's view point. The reader, bewildered as he is about subject matter, at least notices the fisherman's mannerisms and the obedient and calm way in which he offers his ship to convey the burden carried by Hassan's soldiers. Once the reader comprehends the scene for its true nature, he is likely to view the fisherman's composure with horror. Thus, this passage acts as a foil to the preceding section, for the fisherman nov; appears almost as cruel and heartless toward Leila as the Giaour was toward Hassan.
29 Review of The Giaour, a_ Fragment of a. Turkish Tale, by Lord Byron, in the Quarterly Review, X (January, 1814), 337. 40
After the lines spoken by the omniscient narrator, the fisher man proceeds to fill in the missing links of the story. The section from line 439 through line 786 still falls into many separate frag ments, but the overall presentation is quite consistent in tense and chronology and offers the best source of information regarding the personalities of the Giaour and the Moslem storyteller. As more of
the story gradually becomes clear, it is not difficult to ascertain
the motivating forces behind the narrator's hatred for the Giaour, and
the reader feels more empathy with the fisherman's views. In all
respects, the narrator is a believer in the Moslem religion and the
Moslem code of ethics; consequently he denounces the Giaour as "faith
less" and upholds the ruling that Leila's ". . . treachery deserved
a grave" (1. 462). But the fisherman seems more than just a mouthpiece
for traditional Moslem beliefs. He personally interrupts his discourse
to give his appreciation of Leila's physical and spiritual beauty (as
described in lines 473-519) which indicates that he truly regrets her
death. On the other hand, his praise of Hassan (lines 723-746) is so
traditionally formalized that he obviously has little personal liking
for this person. Judging from these examples, the narrator's harsh
treatment of the Giaour is probably more from personal dislike that
just common prejudice. The reader, therefore, comes to respect the
fisherman for his personal integrity even though his viewpoint is
slanted.
Whether or not the reader is converted to the Moslem view
point, he now looks carefully at the Giaour's character as it is 41 presented in this section. Perhaps a key passage in the investiga tion is the one spoken by Hassan as he meets the Giaour in battle:
"'Tis he! 'tis he! I know him now; I know him by his pallid brow; I know him by the evil eye That aids his envious treachery; I know him by his jet-black barb; Though now arrayed in Arnaut garb, Apostate from his own vile faith.
It shall not save him from the death:" (11. 610-617)
Although he is naturally disliked for his Christian heritage, the
Giaour is more despised because of his faithlessness to this heritage and his treacherous actions that seem motivated by nothing more than personal passion. Hassan and the narrator condemn the Giaour for having no morals rather than for having Christian morals, and indeed his conduct seems to verify this. Not only is he capable of seducing another's wife, he is also able to justify his revenge morally and achieve it through the unfair advantage of an ambush. By his own admission, the Giaour mentions that his "... wrath is wrecked, the deed is done" after he kills Hassan (1. 687). For these reasons, the reader accepts the fisherman's point of view as an honest and valid one, although the narrator's final curse upon the Giaour (11. 747-786) seems about as irrationally impassioned as his earlier tribute to
Hassan seems coolly controlled.
There is, however, one small portion of dialogue which prevents the tale from logically ending with the fisherman's narration. In a fragment consisting of lines 675-688, the Giaour speaks for himself without the intervening judgment of a narrator. He admits his vengeance and wrath against Hassan, but declares that his actions are directed by 42 his love for Leila and his desire to.rectify her sacrifice of true love in death. He says:
"Yes, Leila sleeps beneath.the wave. But his shall be a redder grave; Her spirit pointed well the steel
Which taught that felon heart to feel." (11. 675-678)
Inspired by these lines to think more favorably of the Giaour, the reader wishes to know more about his mysterious and ambiguous charac ter. If nothing else, the Giaour has faith in his love for Leila, and this particular revelation prevents the fisherman's comments from being conclusive.
A Christian monk is the third narrator, and he speaks lines 787-
915, the substantial opening section of part two. His reactions to the
Giaour are as unfavorable as the opinions expressed previously by the fisherman, a rather surprising discovery for the reader who expects a more sympathetic approach from a non-Moslem speaker. Yet, as he pro ceeds, the monk offers substantial information to prove his dislike of the Giaour. For one thing, the Giaour does not observe the rules of the Christian community to which he belongs, as explained in lines
802-805: "But never at our Vesper prayer. Nor e'er before Confession chair Kneels he, nor recks he when arise Incense or anthem to the skies."
In addition, he abstains from the services of the monastery for reasons of pride rather than humility or guilt. Within his face
. . . there are hues not always faded. Which speak a mind not all degraded Even by the crim.es through which it waded. (11. 863-865)
But these remarks, hovjever accurate, are also dependent, to som.e degree, 43 on the monk's own personal pique. The monk, it seems, might tolerate the Giaour were it not for the fact that the stranger purchased his acceptance into the monastery. The narrator's remarks hint much too obviously of a feigned indignation as he criticizes the Abbot, In lines 818-821 he is more intent on proving his own righteousness rather than determining the virtues or vices of the Giaour:
"But were I Prior, not a day Should brook such stranger's further stay, Or pent within our penance cell Should doom him there for aye to dwell."
Because of the monk's recognizably selfish motivation, his narration gives a clouded impression of the Giaour which still does not satisfy the reader's curiosity.
The Giaour himself assumes the position of the fourth and final narrator and logically so, for no other concluding point of view would bring the romance to a satisfactory close. Basically, the Giaour's words, stretching from line 971 to line 1328, confirm ideas already perceived by the reader in earlier portions of the tale. No startling information offers unexpected evidence that the Giaour is any better or worse a personality than previously thought. The reader, ^^7ho has been intrigued throughout the narrative by the possibility of the
Giaour's hidden virtues, finds his awaited confirmation from the man's o\-m lips. Tae Giaour says of his capacity for love:
"But mine v/as like the lava flood That boils in AEtna's breast of flam.e. I cannot prate in puling strain Of Ladye-love, and Beauty's chain: If changing cheek, and scorching vein. Lips taught to writhe, but not complain. 44
If bursting heart, and maddening brain, And daring deed, and vengeful steel. And all that I have felt, and feel.
Betoken love—that love was mine." (11. 1101-1110)
For readers of more tender sensibilities, the passage also includes
many milder expressions of his tender and unending devotion to Leila.
While the Giaour vindicates his cruel killing of Hassan by his loyalty
to Leila, this entire section is not merely a whitewashing of the
Giaour's character. Many phrases sustain the image that he is a man of
unparalleled pride and vengeance. Even though he admits that his days
have passed "'In much of Joy, but more of Woe'" (1. 983), the Giaour
cannot tolerate any pity from the monk receiving the confession and
makes deliberately hateful statements to show his abhorrence of relig
ious com.fort. Near the end he says:
I would not, if I might, be blest;
I want no Paradise, but rest. (11. 1269-1270)
The seemingly humble plea for an unmarked grave likewise only vaguely
disguises the Giaour's prideful desire for nonconformity.
In some respects, having the Giaour relate this last section of
the tale is anticlimactic. His verbosity in trying to explain his life
to a monk whom he really despises leaves the impression of weakness
rather than strength. The element of conflict between a narrator and
the Giaour, which provides the interest of earlier portions, also dis appears when the Giaour pleads his own case. Several passages (espe cially lines 1131-1140 with a spiritual glorification of love) are so inconsistent with the speaker's personality that Byron's didactic pur poses glare from the page. On the positive side, this viewpoint has 45 much to commend it. If Byron had used another antagonistic narrator, the romance would have been decidedly lopsided and boring. Similarly, a narrator favorable to the Giaour might have given the ending an uncon vincing sentimentality. Instead, the Giaour's recitation contains enough complexity to leave the reader some perplexing thoughts at the end. The Giaour's thoughts, for instance, are not related directly to the reader but rather to the monk. Considering the Giaour's aloofness and his hatred of the monk's religious profession, the possibility remains that the monologue is pure bravado summoned up for the monk's benefit. The Giaour's intermittent mention of his despair and distress might be evidence of an underlying weakness that he is trying to hide from the monk. On the other hand, the monk's respectful tolerance and attempted sympathy for the Giaour may actually inspire the speaker to say more about his love for Leila than he feels. Although a dying man would hardly have reason to speak anything but the truth, the monk's
influence is questionable enough to leave the reader some doubts about
the Giaour.
As an experiment in point of view, then. The Giaour presents
an interesting and diversive series of conflicts basically oriented
around the Hassan-Leila-Giaour relationship but more specifically
centered upon the differences observable between the narrators and the main character. Robert Gleckner believes that Byron adopted this
technique in order to develop a thematic study of the human condition with the "... role of the controlling poet expanded to the point 46 where he could see the fundamental similarity of man's eternal predica- 30 ment on earth." While thematic considerations are beyond the range of this discussion, Gleckner's remark sheds new light on technical aspects of the tale, particularly characterization. The foregoing examination of the different narrative sections shows, primarily, how
Byron uses the various viewpoints as a source of plot interest and development. Secondarily, however, this same discussion provides information on Byron's technique of character presentation.
Each of the four narrators, despite their different backgrounds and roles in telling the story, have similar features. As Byron por
trays them, they are all men frustrated in achieving the goals which signify their happiness in life. The omniscient narrator, who glories in man's noble freedom from tyranny, confronts the debased slavery of
Greece. The fisherman desires a peaceful and stable governmental rule and is distressed to discover the death and decay brought upon Hassan's genteel rule by the passionate Giaour. Guided by the traditional man ners of religious sanctity, the monk frets over the Giaour's disturbing nonconformity and worries that the whole comm.unity of monks may be damned for taking him into their society. More than these, the Giaour's brooding over Leila's loss indicates that not even his revenge upon
Hassan can ease the frustration of his lonely existence. Leila also fits this pattern, although Hassan, by his decisive action and coldhearted progress through life, defies it. Byron's parallel development of these
30 Gleckner, Byron and the Ruins of Paradise, pp. 98-99. 47
characters indicates that probably a great deal of his technique in
characterization derives from the thematic idea regarding man's
fundamental predicament pointed out by Gleckner.
The manner in which Byron develops the personality of the
Giaour requires close scrutiny, for much of the romance's effective-"
ness depends upon him. An obvious part of the poet's treatment is
his ability to surround the Giaour with mystery, a result mainly
obtained by avoiding an overriding omniscient narrator. In this
regard, Byron succeeds quite well. The fisherman and the monk are
not expected to know anything about the Giaour more than they see or
hear. The Giaour, who could tell about his entire life, chooses not
to do so. Some critics contend that this choice seems arbitrarily and
deliberately contrived to leave the Giaour shadowed in mystery. Con
sidering, hov/ever, that the Giaour is a dying man speaking to an
unfamiliar listener, it seems perfectly natural that he should dwell
only upon the most important period of his life and the events that
have caused him so much despair. In addition, Byron supplies a hint of
the Giaour's earlier life in lines 1218-1256. Although the passage is vague, it mentions a friendship conducted "In earlier days, and calmer hours" (1. 1218), v/hen the Giaour could still smile in the anticipation
of a happy life. But the Giaour also mentions that his friend prophe sied his doom, an indication that the Giaour's personality was nearly always the same passionate and rash nature that the tale presents. The passage explains enough about the Giaour's previous existence to dispel 48 any grave doubts about his nature, but at the same time it is elusive enough for the reader to wish he knew more.
The passion of the Giaour's character undoubtedly provides the focal point of Byron's technique. Consequently, it demands a very careful evolution which Byron, unfortunately, only partially produces.
The fisherman's first observation of the Giaour, for instance, is uncannily perceptive to the point that the reader is hardly left an interpretation of his own. Lines 234-239 illustrate this:
He stood—some dread was on his face. Soon Hatred settled in its place: It rose not with the reddening flush Of transient Anger's hasty blush, But pale as marble o'er the tomb. Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom.
After such an introduction, the reader is not unduly shocked to learn of the violent destruction which the Giaour wrecks upon Hassan. As if realizing his error, Byron rather clumsily has the narrator in lines
460-472 defer to conflicting rumors in order to cast some doubt on whether the Giaour really was so passionately involved with Leila and
Hassan.
The saving element of Byron's technique may occur in the arrangement of part two. At the close of the fisherman's narrative,
the reader expects the next scene to show: (1) the Giaour happy and contented, thereby defying the Moslem's hateful curse, or (2) the
Giaour passionately embarked upon another adventure. Although in lines 675-688 the Giaour gives an impression of his deep loyalty to
Leila, his revenge upon Hassan appears to be a satisfying end to the responsibility he feels toward her. Only line 688, "'And now I go— 49 but go alone'" gives a small clue to the Giaour's possible melancholy.
Therefore, seeing the Giaour brooding within a monastery surprises the reader somewhat and redeems Byron's characterization from being overly predictable.
A partial analysis of the poem's form has already been accom plished through an examination of the various fragments and narrators.
Not yet determined, however, is the tale's basic distribution of dramatic and narrative qualities. This romance, more than any of the others, does not fall easily into one classification or the other.
Many of its scenes, especially the two after line 786 between the monk and the fisherman and the Giaour and the monk, are explicitly dramatic in structure. Despite this appearance of dialogue, the scenes use mainly monologue, and the general impression is of narrative or pic torial presentation. Because so many different people help paint the picture of the Giaour, the tale retains more interest than the usual story of this type. As Clement Goode points out, the scenes also vary between calm and violent, or between a summarizing of action and an 31 eye-witness account of action. Those scenes given from a viewpoint more immediate to the situation come close to dramatic presentation
(that is, the battle scene, lines 567-619) and at least give the sense of alternating dramatic and pictorial sequences. They also allow the pace of the work some flexibility. According to Enholm's three-part division of story form. The Giaour, then, seems best categorized as episodic. Robert Gleckner, using very different terminology, has
^"'"Goode, "Byron's Early Romances: A Study," pp. 159-160. 50 an interesting way of expressing the peculiar form of this work.
He conraients:
Though "accretive" is a proper word to use in describing the poem's evolution, its structure is more accurately seen as vertical. The tension between the horizontality toward which each segment of the narrative tends and the coinstantaneous thrust of the poet's generalizations, interpretations, and analogies is what gives the poem its peculiar effect and interest.^^
In general. The Giaour's fragmented organization is unusual enough to keep the work from any conventional definition of form.
For nineteenth century readers, the Eastern setting of Byron's romances accounted for a great deal of their popularity. Twentieth
century tastes consider setting relatively unimportant and find lush
description a trifle dull and sentimental. It is a credit to Byron's
artistry that The Giaour achieves a sensible balance between too
little or too much descriptive material. The tale contains many
reflective passages, but they are usually short and do not become
overly frustrating in their interruption of the narrative's flow.
Lines 473-518, which give a description of Leila, are a good example
of Byron's technique. Frequently, the poet alludes to Eastern legend,
as when he calls her soul "Bright as the jewel of Giamshid" (1. 479).
Other times he focuses his comparisons on observable Oriental features,
such as the landscape or climate:
On her fair cheek's unfading hue The young pomegranate's blossoms strew Their bloom in blushes ever nev/; Her hair in hyacinthine flow, When left to roll its folds below, (11. 493-497)
32 Gleckner, Byron and the Ruins of Paradise, pp. 116-117, 51
Aside from passages overtly designed to evoke an Eastern air, The
^^^Q^^ contains description of a more general nature which often contributes to the interest of the story line rather than detracting from it. Jerome McGann praises lines 34-45 especially for the beauti fully managed tempo which Byron gives to his description, gradually 33 increasing a sense of foreboding. This passage, which really begins in line 7 and ends in line 67, is one of the more descriptive in The
Giaour, yet Byron controls it with the thematic idea of Greece's marred beauty. Byron's descriptive technique is also closely entwined with his stylistic and thematic techniques obvious in the many sections of epic simile found throughout the poem.
The Giaour has several interesting stylistic features. The entire poem is written in octosyllabic couplets that evoke a feeling of ballad style. Although the rhythm may be suggestive of ballad meter,
Byron's language is usually too ornate to make this a dominant impres sion. Byron's use of language has, moreover, several peculiarities.
McGann observes Byron's use of epithets, a formulaic technique which 34 is frequently employed in oral poetry. The device is particularly noticeable from lines 439-786 v/here the narrator refers to Hassan as
"stern" and the Giaour as "faithless" or "accursed." According to
McGann, the epithets catch the reader's attention so that Byron is left 35 free to complicate the emotional nuances. The more reflective parts
33 McGann, Fiery Dust, p. 155. 34 Ibid., p. 146. ^^Ibid., p. 150. 52 of the tale employ personification, a technique which Oliver Elton criticizes (see p. 26, supra). Byron's subjects are Love, Beauty, and Hate, The personification usually appears in conjunction with an extended simile or metaphor spoken by the omniscient narrator. As the technique does not interfere with the action, it seems appropriately used in this work. Overall, Byron's style is sometimes ponderous, but it is never difficult to understand. The word order of the sentences remains quite normal. In many places, Byron's verse approaches a charming simplicity when the rhythm and vocabulary are perfectly suited to one another.
The Giaour, taken as a work of narrative art, has many faults.
Its plot, aside from the personality of the Giaour himself, is very weak. The time line is disjunct and confusing. Characterization and dramatic intensity suffer because of the tale's basically narrative form that allows the reader little room for his o\^n interpretations. Despite these considerations. The Giaour proves successful, primarily just be cause it is unusual. Much of its appeal rests on the fact that it breaks many of the traditional rules of good narrative technique. The intriguing nature of its varying viewpoints is, of course, a strong point. Likewise, Byron's presentation of the mysterious Giaour is skillfully managed for suspense. The style and setting are appropriate to the subject matter and have a charm of their own. Therefore, the narrative technique of The Giaour can be termed a qualified success which has as its main strength an innovative variety in the use of several points of view. ^m^w^
53
The Siege of Corinth
Unlike The Giaour, which has received the coiraiients of nearly
every Byron scholar, The Siege of Corinth is a work that has been
largely neglected. Of all the Oriental romances, it is the most
severely criticized. E. H. Coleridge, in the introduction to the poem,
mentions that the major reviews of the day ignored it, and the minor
periodicals that did comment "... took occasion to pick out and hold
up to ridicule the illogical sentences, the grammatical solecisms, and
general imperfections of technique which marked and disfigured the
Siege of Corinth." Unfortunately, later examinations of the tale
affirmed these early judgments, and so the majority of commentators
has been disposed to give the work only a passing remark. Despite its
obvious awkwardness of versification and language. The Siege of Corinth,
when carefully considered, awakens some interesting speculation about
Byron's narrative technique and general design for the poem.
The Siege of Corinth, the fifth of the Oriental tales, is
generally regarded as a work of 1815, begun by Byron in January and
finished during the summer. The poem was finally published in February,
1816, along with Parisina, the last of the romances. Of the tale as it is
published today, the first 45 lines were not printed in the first edition.
This passage, v/hich Byron called "The Stranger's Tale," was sent to his
publisher, John Murray, a month after the remainder of the text. Byron
said that the lines were written at an earlier time as an intended
opening to the poem, but he left Murray the decision as to whether or
Byron, Poetry, III, p. 444. 54 37 not they could be suitably added to the poem at this time. Murray decided to omit the lines, and they were not prefixed to the poem 38 until 1832. In the light of Byron's habitual additions and dele tions to his published works, this situation would not be noteworthy except for some recent observations by critic Robert Gleckner.
The passage in question, lines 1-45, introduces the reader to a bard-like narrator who is responsible for the tale that follows.
Because this narrator obviously intrudes in later portions of the text
(see 1. 446), the first lines form an integral part of the work, even
though, as Gleckner contends, they were probably composed in 1813 39 rather than 1815. To support his assertion that Byron first con ceived the tale two years earlier than the 1815 date when he completed it, Gleckner points out the similarities between The Siege of Corinth and The Giaour. Both tales have narrators who pose as participants in
the story, both contain an infidel as the main character, and both 40 dramatize the conflict between Moslem and Christian ideals. These arguments are quite convincing, and bolstered by the mutual sympathies of the two narrators for Greek democratic ideals, they suggest that
Byron's initial design for The Siege of Corinth was a second experiment
37 Byron, Letters and Journals, III, p. 250. ^^Byron, Poetry, III, p. 449. 39 Gleckner, Byron and the Ruins of Paradise, pp. 166-167
Ibid., p. 167. 55 in point of view. This experiment is, however, more conventional than that of the earlier tale.
In The Giaour, the bard-narrator, as explained by Jerome
McGann (see p. 31, supra), so effectively changes himself into the
form of the fisherman, the monk, and the Giaour, that his own role
(as the omniscient narrator) provides little influence on the story
except as a sort of transitional device. His intriguing metamor phosis takes priority over the Hassan-Leila-Giaour love story in pro viding the romance's suspense. The narrator of The Siege of Corinth
assumes a less domineering role. His personality has definable limits and only rarely does he attempt an identification which contradicts his ^ generally omniscient pose. Byron describes this bard as "A wild bird and a wanderer" (1. 39) who, at the time of the siege, belonged to a motley crew of traveling adventurers. His nationality and creed remain unknovm (11. 18-21), allowing him, at least in theory, an unprejudiced vision in relating the events of the story. Despite this initial declaration of neutrality, the narrator possesses certain sentiments that gradually show him to favor the VJestern outlook above the Eastern.
As he begins his story, the narrator speaks admiringly of
Corinth's former glory:
A fortress formed to Freedom's hands.
The keystone of a land, which still,
Tnough fall'n looks proudly on that hill. (11. 49, 52-53)
Although he is obviously opposed to tyranny, the narrator avoids any passionate outbursts against the Turks (unlike The Giaour's narrator 56 in 11. 103-167) and speaks philosophically of the blood and bones paid out by both sides in the many battles for Greece (11. 54-70). His mel ancholy tone and reflective mood support his love of freedom without committing his sentiments as either Christian or Moslem. Before long, however, the narrator plainly identifies himself with the Venetian
(Christian) forces. In line 114, he refers to Alp, the Moslem hero, as ". , . the Adrian renegade" and subsequently calls Alp "... the infidel" (1. 877) who has earned ". . . faithless fame/ . . . beneath a Moslem name" (11. 316-317). On the other hand, when speaking of
Minotti, the Christian hero, he is more complimentary:
Minotti held in Corinth's towers The Doge's delegated powers, While yet the pitying eye of Peace
Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece: (11. 218-221)
The narrator definitely equates Grecian freedom with Venetian rule in lines 147-150: Coumourgi—can his glory cease. That latest conqueror of Greece, Till Christian hands to Greece restore The freedom Venice gave of yore?
The revelations of these passages impinge rather significantly upon the bard's claim to objectivity. Nevertheless, Byron offers some contrast ing lines in an attempt at counterbalance.
Alp, though discredited for his role as a turncoat, is not without noble attributes for which the narrator admires him. He has a respect for the ideals of freedom and a knowledge of his own failings:
And through this night, as on he v/andered. And o'er the past and present pondered. And thought upon the glorious dead Who there in better cause had bled. 57 He felt how faint and feebly dim The fame that could accrue to him. Who cheered the band, and waved'the sword, A traitor in a turbaned horde; (11. 392-399)
Minotti, who usually receives the narrator's admiration, encounters some subtly disparaging comments in regard to his motive for killing the Moslems, a vindictive desire to avenge his lost son. Of Minotti's ability with a sword, the narrator comments:
If shades by carnage be appeased, Patroclus' spirit less was pleased Than his, Minotti's son, who died
Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. (11. 809-812)
These passages, although they do not clear the narrator of his pro-
Western sympathies, show that he is at least fair in judging the two heroes impartially. He respects them more for their true ideals rather than their outward profession of either Moslem or Christian belief.
Another point in favor of the narrator's objectivity is the coolly con trolled manner in which he relates the tale. While this detached method adds nothing to the romance's dramatic intensity, it keeps the bard's personality from intruding too forcefully in the story.
The narrator, as mentioned earlier, usually takes an omniscient pose. He is not, however, consistent throughout the poem in his degree of omniscience. This inconsistency tends to give The Siege of Corinth a fragmented and uneven quality much like,that of The Giaour. From line
46 through line 229, the storyteller fills in the background of the characters and the battle event itself. The reader learns that Alp is the renegade hero of the Moslem attacking force, that Minotti is the
Venetian ruler of the besieged city, and that Francesca is Minotti's 58 beautiful daughter and Alp's desired bride. For a passage of this sort, where a large amount of information must be swiftly summarized, the omniscient viewpoint seems naturally suited. In the next section, encompassing lines 230-677, this same omniscience is unnaturally strained and overbearing, l^ile lines 533-677 present a dramatic scene of meeting between Francesca and Alp, the first portion consists of an elaborately introspected picture of Alp's troubled conscience.
Unfortunately, the reader becomes much too aware of Byron's presence behind the storyteller's voice. The passage would not be so obvious were the poem to include a similar treatment of Minotti. As it is, however, the v^^ork's conclusion, lines 678-1079, is told from a partic ipant's point of view rather than the former omniscient view. The focus consequently shifts from the reflective to the active mood, and even though Minotti dominates the battle scene, his character is observed only from outv7ard traits rather than inv/ard examination. As a result of this sudden change in the narrator's pose, the tale suffers unintentional structural divisions. The varying viewpoints also bear testimony to Byron's intrusion into the viewpoint of his supposedly self-sufficient narrator that results in an unequal method of char acterization.
If the structure of The Siege of Corinth is fragmented because of Byron's awkward handling of the narrator's omniscience, other char acteristics of the tale indicate that the poet did not intend this poem to be like The Giaour in organization. The time line of the work, for instance, follows the events of the siege in fairly chronological order 59
from the time the Moslems invaded the plain before Corinth and began
their attacks to the time when they finally captured the city. Lines
115-158 and 177-229 employ the flashback technique in order to fill in
background information, but the device is smoothly handled and pro
vides material that is necessary to the further development of the
story. This flashback in time also contrives to condense the time
span of the action so that the narrator does not need to use summary
passages. From line 71 to line 114, the narrator tells of the gather
ing of Moslem forces at the beginning of the siege. After the section
relating past events, the narrator jumps several intervening days of
the siege to focus on the night preceding the final battle (1. 230).
The reader, already conditioned by the flashback, makes this second
jump in time quite effortlessly. The remainder of the poem follows
the happenings of the last day with careful attention to the time
sequence.
Because of the relatively short time span treated in the poem, 41 The Siege of Corinth is more dramatic in form than The Giaour. Except
for the first 229 lines, which condense action in narrative summary, the
remaining 850 lines concentrate on two episodes which evolve according
to a realistic and dramatic progression of time. The episodes, although
each is dramatically complete within itself, are also connected in a
direct cause and effect relationship that adds to the dramatic effect
of the entire work. The first episode consists of the confrontation
The siege of Corinth began on June 28, 1715 and ended on July 2, 1715. 60 between Alp and Francesca. Francesca escapes the walled city and pleads with Alp to give up his adopted creed or else lose her:
"Again I say—that turban tear From off thy faithless brow, and swear Thine injured country's sons to spare. Or thou art lost; and never shalt see—
Not earth—that's past—but Heaven or me." (11. 630-634)
Alp's "... deep interminable pride" (1. 654) will not allow him to give in to her, and although he cannot persuade her to fly away with him that night, he still plans to capture her after the Turks gain the city. The conflict of these two characters can only be resolved by viewing the outcome of the siege. This first scene, therefore, pro vides a motivation for the second episode, the battle scene.
The battle episode dramatizes a wider range of scenes than the previous episode. It begins with a scene in the Moslem camp with the narrator assuming the voice of the Turkish leaders as they shout inspir ation to their troops. The second scene is a description of the Moslem forces as they break the city's wall and face the sturdy Minotti with his vicious svzord. The focal encounter, however, is the meeting of Alp and Minotti which occurs in lines 847-896. Alp confronts the Venetian leader and asks about Francesca's safety. Informed by the grimly smil ing Minotti that his lover is dead. Alp suffers moral defeat and falls an easy victim to a well-aimed bullet. While the scene is the climax to the Alp story, it also provides the motivation for the final scene.
Minotti, strengthened in his resistance by the easy victory over the hated renegade leader, spurs on his band of men to the final daring deed. The church is fired, and the Christians and Moslems alike become the victims of that last explosion that ends the battle. ^ 61
As this brief explanation illustrates, all of the individual events related in The Siege of^ Corinth are linked together because of an interlocking dependence on the final outcome of the battle for their resolution. This linkage is true for the story interest surrounding
Alp and Francesca, for the story interest surrounding Minotti, and for the story interest surrounding the Moslem-Christian conflict and the y question of Corinth's loss or preservation of freedom. All of the action is connected, and the resolution of every level of plot interest occurs when the battle is concluded. For these reasons, the poem fits
Enholm's definition of dramatic story structure almost perfectly.
There are, however, a few features of The Siege of Corinth that some what qualify its dramatic form. Only a small'portion of the lines between 230 and 1079 are in dialogue. The narrator, however, after he assumes the role of a participant rather than an omniscient onlooker beginning in line 678, compensates for the lack of face-to-face speech by his adeptness at holding the reader's attention with suspense.
Basically, it is lines 230-532 with their philosophical reflection that mar the drama of the work. VJhile a lack of dialogue and an overly reflective narrator constitute only minor flaws, they do weaken the work structurally.
The same cause and effect progression of events which gives The
Siege of Corinth a dramatic form also provides the tale with an exciting story line. Analyzing this story line apart from its excitement value, hovzever, shows that the combination of events does not really form one
/ 0 Enholm's definition of story structure is given on page 15. 62 unified plot but rather a connected system of two plots. The first of
these, and the one which seems to capture the reader's main interest,
is the love story of Alp and Francesca. From his first introduction
in line 95, Alp figures as the hero ,of the romance. His interest in
Francesca, as explained in lines 177-193, establishes a suspenseful
situation. The conflict between the two lovers gathers intensity with
their confrontation in lines 533-677. Finally, in lines 847-896, the
story resolves as Alp discovers Francesca's death and finds his own
from a bullet. Although complete within itself, the plot surrounding
Alp and Francesca comes to an early finish which is not compatible with
the romance's ending some 200 lines later. Instead, the conclusion of
the tale coincides with the climax of the second plot that focuses on
Minotti and his defense of the city. Minotti emerges as the second
hero of the story beginning in line 767. The conflict here involves no
other single character but rather the whole Moslem army. Minotti must
find a way to protect himself and his city from the humiliation of
defeat. He achieves part of his goal by watching the hated renegade.
Alp, fall to Venetian bullets. His final triumph comes in the blasting
of the church, an act which kills many of the enemy, keeps him from cap
ture, and destroys the most precious part of the invaders' spoils. This
event also brings the siege to an end, and the romance concludes at this
point.
Although the two plots interact and combine to form the story line of the romance, the events dealing with Alp occupy a greater portion of the tale and are presented in a more interesting and detailed manner. 63
As a result of this unequal balance of the plots, many critics question
Byron's.technique and wonder why he did not end the tale at line 896
with the renegade's death. Clement Goode suggests that the solution
lies with Byron's conception of a more basic plot for which the others
only form a focus. In his opinion, Byron's main concern is the battle
itself, a focal event in the struggle of Moslem tyranny against Western 43 freedom. Viewing The Siege of Corinth from this standpoint makes
Byron's reasons for inserting the Minotti plot much more obvious. With
out the Venetian leader's sacrifice, the plot would have disproportion
ately favored the Moslem victory. The two plots, however, still remain
unequal, and the fault probably occurs because of Byron's technique of
characterization.
The two heroes of The Siege of Corinth are direct opposites.
Alp is young and passionate. In a single rash moment he gave up his
country and his creed and later became the fiery leader of the Moslem
horde. Although he is brave in battle, he is foolhardy in love and
his devotion to Francesca proves his dox^mfall. Minotti is an old man,
tempered by experience. Using the control gained from a lifetime of
crisis, he stands his ground and calmly vzaits for the precise moment
when the enemy reaches for the spoils before lighting the torch (11.
1011-1015). His heart is so hardened to the vzays of the v7orld that he
can even tolerate the desecration of the church for a bloody victory.
Both men have the common characteristic of pride, and both are seeking
revenge. Alp v/ishes vengeance for the slander of his name. Minotti wishes to avenge the death of his son. Theoretically, the two stand
Goode, "Byron's Early Romances, A Study," pp. 183-185. 64 evenly matched, but Byron's characterization distinguishes them sharply.
The picture drawn of Alp is a sympathetic one. The narrator stands in awe of Alp's prowess in war:
With deeper skill in War's black art, Than Othman's sons, and high of heart As any Chief that ever stood
Triumphant in the fields of blood; (11. 97-100)
In lines 115-140, the narrator even seems to approve of Alp's revenge against Venice, for Alp is the victim of a treacherous Venetian prac tice that allows accusation and conviction of a man without proof of 44 his crime. Despite his fierceness in battle. Alp is not without some gentle feelings. On the night before the battle, he is restless and wanders from his bed. In his troubled state of mind, he knows he is a traitor who
. . . has led them [the Moslems] to the lawless siege. Whose best success were sacrilege. (11. 400-401)
As he sees the wild dogs feasting on the dead bodies of his fallen soldiers, he sickens at the thought of war's unglorious sidelines.
When he finally senses Francesca's presence beside him, he tenderly observes her fragile beauty with some concern:
The rose was yet upon her cheek. But mellowed with a tenderer streak: Where was the play of her soft lips fled? Gone was the smile that enlivened their red. (11. 546-549)
He loves her desperately, but he rejects her pleas because his pride,
"This first false passion of his breast," (1. 655) v/ill not permit him to be dismayed "By wild words of a timid maid!" (1. 658). Although the
44 A full explanation is given by E. H. Coleridge in Byron, Poetry, III, p. 455, footnote number 1. 65 narrator does not precisely condone Alp's pigheaded pride, he leaves the implication in line 658 that Alp must be respected for sticking to his manly purpose rather than giving in to a woman's love. Basic ally, Alp is presented as the Byronic hero, fierce and sensitive, and as such he receives a favored treatment.
The presentation of Minotti's character is marked by an inaus
picious beginning. The reader, who is eagerly following Alp's progress
through the battle, regards Minotti's introduction as a diversion.
Likewise, the narrator's negative approach reinforces this impression.
Minotti earns respect because he "So gallantly bore the brunt of the
fray" (1. 783) and managed to keep his foes at bay. The "wrath" and
"ire" that guide his weapon, however, meet the narrator's criticism.
As Minotti tells of his daughter's death, he appears devoid of any
emotion and is only able to gloat over Alp's discomfiture. Replying
to Alp's questioning of when Francesca died, he says:
—"Yesternight— Nor weep I for her spirit's flight: None of my pure race shall be Slaves to Mahomet and thee—" (11. 861-864)
Even Minotti's seemingly valiant act in sacrificing himself and the
church receives the ironically disparaging comments of the narrator:
Minotti lifted his aged eye, And made the sign of a cross with a sigh. Then seized a torch v/hich blazed thereby; (11. S60-962)
By the implication of these lines, Minotti ranks as a coldhearted
hypocrite. Although Minotti does not have a sympathetic appeal, the
characterization of his personality is as consistently worked out as
Alp's is. Byron is careful to develop both men's strengths and 66 weaknesses.through the action of the plot. Nevertheless, the greater complexity and description given to Alp's presentation (partly because of viewpoint) naturally focuses the reader's attention more prominently on this character. Unfortunately, the narrator too often provides thinly disguised judgments of the characters which destroy the other wise convincing nature of Byron's characterization technique.
When compared to The Giaour in terms of setting. The Siege of
Corinth is far more subdued and simple in its use of exotic descriptive passages. Especially after the battle scene begins in line 678, the description, even when elaborate, is necessary for conveying the excite ment of the action. Lines 947-1010, for example, sketch the inside of
the church by contrasting imagery of the sanctified peace represented in the Madonna's smile and the violence represented in the streaming gore of the fighting forces. At the same time that it contributes to the work's setting, this passage adds to the dramatic force of the con flict between the Moslem and Christian forces. The description of lines 1030-1079, while overly extensive in portraying nature's reaction to the battle holocaust (11. 1060-1078), effectively conveys a feeling of utter desolation and destruction that brings the narrative to a forceful close.
The passage extending from line 230-533 is the only one that contains scenerio of a sentimental nature. The following lines provide an illustration:
'Tis midnight: on the mountain brown The cold, round moon shines deeply do^^n; Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 67
Spreads like an ocean hung on high. Bespangled with those isles of light. So wildly, spiritually bright; (11. 242-247)
Unlike similar passages in The Giaour, the' description here is not
Oriental in its imagery. Usually, these sections of elaborate set
ting establish a mood of sadness either through pictures of stillness
(like the one above) or the crumbling decay of Corinth's ruins (11. 495-
506). Several lines for which the poem is especially famous create an
image of unusual horror:
And he [Alp] saw the lean dogs beneath the wall Hold o'er the dead their Carnival, Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb; They were too busy to bark at him! From a Tarter's skull they had stripped the flesh,
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh; (11. 454-459)
Rather than being sentimentally trite, this passage is almost exces- ^
sively vivid in its realism. Its central position within the 300 lines
of otherwise mediocre landscape painting gives the section at least an
interesting focus. / \^ The style of The Siege of Corinth has long been regarded as the
poem's greatest defect. Although the lines are consistently rhymed in
couplets, the meter is an uneven mixture of iambic and anapestic tetra meter. Byron, when first criticized for the poem's prosody, replied: Great part of The Siege is in (I think) what the learned call Anapests (though I am not sure, being heinously forgetful of my metres and my Gradus), and many of the lines are inten tionally longer or shorter than its rhyming companion.
According to the poet, the jumbled rhythm of the v/ork is a planned experiment. Many critics dispute Byron on this matter, but lines
45 Byron, Letters and Journals, III, p. 263. 68
423-846 have so many anapestic feet that they cannot all be termed accidental. Strangely enough, however, lines 46-422 and 847^-1079 are written in strict iambic tetrameter with only an occasional irregular ity. The result is a patchwork composition of questionable merit.
The middle section is enjoyable for its varied rhythms, except where too many consecutive anapests create a galloping effect. \«Jhen the sentence order is easily comprehended, the first and last sections provide dull but easy reading.
Sentence structure also poses problems in the poem. Byron's annoying habit in several places is to start a sentence with modifying clauses and delay the subject and verb until the end. The best example is the description of Alp in lines 95-114. Of the 20 lines, 19 are modifiers for the last one which contains the subject and verb. A simpler example is found in lines 187-190:
In happier mood, and earlier time. While unimpeached for traitorous crime. Gayest in Gondola or Hall, He glittered through the Carnival;
In addition to the difficulty of the sentence structure, quaint and trite vocabulary frequently contributes to a loss of meaning. Fortun ately, the poet manages to avoid overworking the personification and epic simile devices mentioned in relation to The Giaour. The style of
The Siege of Corinth is, accordingly, uncluttered even if it does have an unevenness in its sentence structure and rhythm.
The Siege of Corinth cannot be read and enjoyed for its beauti ful poetry and smoothness of language. Likewise, the setting is too '•"Wits
69
bland to be exciting and the plot is divided so as to appear anti-
climactic. With such deficiencies, no work could expect to be popular,
and The Siege is no exception to the rule. Popularity, however, is not
the only gauge for evaluating a work's technique. As this discussion
shows, the fifth of the Oriental romances is really a success on
several accounts. It has a subject matter of considerable interest ^X
that develops within an exciting and dramatic format. It has a hero
(Alp) who is as passionate as any of Byron's heroes. It has a narra- ^
tor who assumes diversive roles even if v/hat he says is too much the '^
poet's thought to be perfectly convincing. According to the first
45 lines, Byron intended the poem as another experiment in viewpoint.
While the poem seems to be such an experiment, albeit a rather con
ventional one, it also deserves to be considered something more. The
tale is an experiment in the dramatic presentation of a theme, in this
case the theme of freedom. Despite his sometimes sloppy workmanship,
Byron's technique in The Siege of Corinth supplies a hint of the dra
matic intensity that the poet later achieved in his mature works. CHAPTER III
FOCUS ON CliARACTERIZATION
The Corsair
The third of Byron's romances. The Corsair, was greeted with extraordinary enthusiasm at the time of its publication in 1814. Since then the poem has received its share of unfavorable criticism, but it continues to be one of Byron's most exciting narratives. Leslie
Marchand, in attempting to analyze the v/ork's nineteenth century appeal, mentions The Corsair's fine descriptive passages, swift narrative, and authentic setting as features that stimulated interest in the poem.
In further comments he observes: "But, most of all, readers were entranced by Conrad, 'That man of loneliness and mystery,' in many of 2 whose traits it was easy to see a thinly veiled portrait of the author."
Conrad's similarities to Byron hold little interest for poetic research
today, but most critics agree that The Corsair's hero still remains the most fascinating aspect of the tale. Conrad's success in dominating
the story is not, hovzever, solely the result of the poet's technique of characterization. Many critics, in fact, find Byron's character presen
tation somewhat weak. Rather, it is Byron's balanced combination of many narrative elements that makes the tale and its hero particularly outstanding among the Oriental romances.
Marchand, Byron: A Biography, I, p. 434 2. •Ibi_d.
70 71
The Giaour and The Siege of Corinth have difficulty in hold
ing reader interest because of their inconsistent narrators and their
lack of a unified and wholly absorbing plot. On these two accounts
The Corsair fares much better. Wliile the teller of this tale is not
entirely inconspicuous, his personality is so indistinct that he
assumes a role of little individuality. His main function, as Robert
Gleckner observes, consists more of furthering the action rather than
of commenting upon it. As a result, the plot of the tale moves
smoothly and quickly without the interruption of reflective passages
to distract the reader's attention. The absence of a well-defined
narrator definitely contributes to The Corsair's generally cohesive
story line.
The point of view used in the poem is the omniscient. From
this vantage point the narrator controls the story with a relatively
free rein, Conrad is his main subject, and there is hardly a non-
dramatic portion of the romance which does not tend to reveal the nar
rator's probing of the hero's mind and emotions. A stanza by stanza
examination of The Corsair proves that over half of the narrated por
tion describes Conrad while the remaining percentage presents action.
Although the narrator most frequently employs his inner analysis in picturing Conrad's mind, he occasionally uses his commanding perspective to reveal the thoughts of Medora and Gulnare, the two heroines. Pas sages devoted to the heroines alone are, hovzever, quite brief. Medora dominates lines 482-504 and lines 1234-1290; Gulnare claims lines
3 Gleckner, Byron and the Ruins of Paradise, p. 140. 72
859-891 and lines 1632-1643. These references indicate only lines given in a narrative.or pictorial manner by the storyteller. Both the hero and the heroines are amply developed throughout the work by means of their own speech and actions. In fact, so much of the story is presented dramatically that the narrator's omniscient vievs^point is seldom overbearing.
Despite the narrator's basic omniscience in the pictorial por tions, Byron inserts some subtle deviations of vzhich the reader should be aware. Because the narrator uses the majority of his passages to explore Conrad's mind rather than to summarize the action, the reader is sometimes fooled into seeing action through the hero's limited vision. A notable example of this trick occurs in Canto III. Conrad and Gulnare have just finished a dramatic scene (1. 1553) in which
Gulnare has indicated that she intends to kill Seyd, the Pacha, so that she and Conrad can escape. Instead of follovzing Gulnare as she goes to carry out her murderous act, the narrator foregoes his usual omniscience and limits the reader to seeing the event through Conrad's eyes. Conrad, who has just been released from his prison cell, still wears the fettering chains and can pursue Gulnare only slowly. He reaches the Pacha's bedchamber as Gulnare exits from it. As he observes
"No poniard in that hand, nor sign of ill—," Conrad concludes that
'"Thanks to that softening heart—she could not kill!'" (11. 1574-75).
This first judgment is reversed in lines 1583-1585 when he notices the bloody smear upon Gulnare's brow. To the unsuspecting reader, the entire passage (11. 1554-1585) appears as simply another interior shot 73 of Conrad's.consciousness. Only a careful analysis reveals how sly the narrator has been at transforming his position. Byron's use of this limited viewpoint is really only a small flaw. The passage remains suspenseful and the reader respects Byron for his aversion to portraying violence.
One last comment needs to be made about The Corsair's com mentator. Despite his neutral appearance, the narrator is sympathetic to Conrad. He refrains from any overt statements to this effect, but the impression still exists. The first 42 lines of the poem, for exam ple, are spoken by a member of the pirate band. The whole tone of the passage celebrates the joys connected with the pirates' lawless and
free way of life;
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried. And danced in triumph o'er the waters vzide. The exulting sense—the pulse's maddening play. That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
No dread of Death—if with us die our foes— Save that it seems even duller than repose; Come when it vzill—we snatch the life of Life— When lost—what recks it by disease or strife? (11.13-16,23-26)
Although the storyteller makes some feeble attempts in the following lines to speak disparagingly of their "... thirsting eye of Enter prise" (1. 56), the reader's general feeling is that the narrator approves of this criminal clan. The impression is furthered as the narrator proceeds to describe Conrad, the pirate chief. After spending lines 169-280 in enumerating Conrad's evil characteristics, the narrator destroys his unapproving view of the hero by a brief passage (11.281-308) 74 revealing the pirate chief's one virtue: faithful love to his bride,
Medora. This revelation, placed strategically at the emphatic end of the description, inclines any but the most hardhearted reader to sympathize with Conrad,
The Corsair contains many passages of a dramatic nature.
Unlike the dramatic passages of The Giaour, which are only disguised monologue, the similarly named sections of The Corsair are based securely upon a well-executed plan of dialogue. The dialogue carries
the action of the plot so well that there is no need for the pseudo- dramatic effect of the eye-witness observer used to create intensity
in The Giaour and The Siege of Corinth. For these reasons, the form
of The Corsair deserves a dramatic designation different from those
given the two previously examined tales.
The dialogue in The Corsair is the most artfully contrived of
any to be found in the Oriental romances. Byron makes use of extensive
speeches by one character, as is typical in several of the tales, but
in The Corsair these speeches rarely occur without the answering utter
ance of another character. The meeting of Conrad and Medora in Canto I
(11. 366-465) serves as a good illustration. Medora voices- her feelings
in two quite lengthy passages, 31 and 39 lines long, respectively. On both occasions, Conrad responds with a shorter but substantial comment
of 12 and 15 lines in length. Although the passages are too long to
simulate actual conversation, they do provide an outlet for character
reaction and interaction. Tvszo other sections, one in Canto II (11. 1027-
1140) and one in Canto III (11. 1438-1553), have a similar construction 75 and show Conrad and.Gulnare in dialogue with one another. There are, however, some exceptions to this practice as in Canto I, lines 311-
340, where Conrad's declamation receives no response and intends no listener except the reader. In general, Byron is careful to avoid further passages of this nature and only allows a spoken line or two to interrupt the narrator's description of a character's musings.
In addition to this technique of the responding speeches,
Byron cleverly manipulates some lines of true dialogue. This dialogue helps sharpen the portrayal of minor incidents and focuses attention on a certain general impression of character rather than giving a detailed analysis. A prominent situation of this type is the first meeting of Conrad with crew members as related in lines 140-168.
Conrad asks a question:
. , . "My tablets, Juan, hark— Where is Gonsalvo?" "In the anchored bark." "There let him stay—to him this order bear— Back to your duty—for my course prepare: Myself this enterprise to-night will share." "To-night, Lord Conrad?"
"Aye! at set of sun:" (11. 153-158)
The drama of this passage intensifies the important but otherwise static declaration of Conrad's personal participation in the next pirate raid.
It also gives the reader a general idea of Conrad, showing the pirate chief to be quick-vzitted in making decisions, well-organized in exe cuting his plans, and convinced enough of his own intelligence to be a good leader to his men. Further dialogue in this manner occurs in lines 555-568 and lines 671-686. 76
While these examples of dialogue are the best Byron offers in
the romances, they do not automatically give The Corsair a dramatic
structure. Unless the individually dramatic episodes fit together in
a tightly organized sequence of cause and effect progressing tovzard
one final and all-encompassing solution, the narrative form of a work
is something other than completely dramatic. The Siege of Corinth is
organized according to this pattern, but The Corsair is not. Instead,
the tale conforms more to Enholm's definition of an episodic story
structure, where disconnected scenes bound together by transitional
narration work toward a final climax. The final climax to The Corsair
occurs when the Medora-Conrad relationship (the main plot) is resolved
in the closing lines of Canto III. This scene is not, however, the
resolution point for all the action of the poem, which it would have
to be were the form entirely dramatic. In the case of this work,
earlier episodes in Canto II and Canto III act as conclusions to the
story's several subplots. The story line peaks at several places in
the narrative (Conrad's capture, Gulnare's murder of Seyd) rather than
at the end alone. The Corsair, therefore, is more episodic than dra matic in form. But because these episodes all involve Conrad in some way and because they are all set mainly in dialogue, the poem ranks as a much more exciting and dramatic version of the episodic story than
Byron's other stories of this type.
Some pertinent information regarding Byron's ability to focus
The Corsair upon a character presentation can be gathered from the fore going discussion of the tale's viewpoint and form. By adopting the 77 omniscient point of view, Byron created the freedom to explore Conrad's mind at will. By skillfully matching this omniscience with a large proportion of effective dialogue, Byron also allows Conrad's person ality a lifelike development through his ovm actions. The contribution of these techniques in shaping Byron's.central technique of character ization cannot be overestimated. Nevertheless, it is primarily through the organization of The Corsair's plot that the poet achieves his greatest success in constructing a story dominated by its character presentation.
The plot development of The Corsair is very different from that of The Giaour, which also focuses on the development of its hero. While
The Giaour's plot centers upon a conflict of viewpoints, The Corsair's plot follows the traditional manner of producing conflict through a
series of events in which the characters react to a situation and
shape it according to their personality traits. Clement Goode observes
that in this tale the events are organized according to the Medieval
quest formula vzhere the hero sets off on a mission, has many adventures,
and returns. Basically, then, Byron's plot structure claims some dis
tinction for its presentation of an exciting adventure story. Within
this framework, however, Byron arranges the events more according to
his interest in Conrad's character rather than his interest in the
action itself. If, for instance, the poet had wished to make this
romance primarily an adventure narrative, he would have emphasized Con
rad's joyful embarkation upon the quest and would have given his hero's
^Goode, "Byron's Early Romances; A Study," p. 170. 78 adventures a wide scope. As it is, the quest and adventure parts of
The Corsair are toned down in favor of Conrad's return. The emphasis is not on the hero's zest for pirate raids but on his desire for a peaceful homecoming to his love, Medora. Further evidence from the text will show how Byron adapts his plot in favor of Conrad's char acterization.
At the beginning of The Corsair, Byron seems to have little interest in presenting anything except the pirates and their way of
life. The pirate-introducer proclaims the delights of a free and
daring existence, and the narrator takes up with a picture of the
excitement attending a ship's return from a successful raid. The
recently landed sailors take their messages to Conrad who proposes a new raid that same evening. He appears every inch the determined and
fearless leader, and the plot (through line 280) gives indication of
being an action-packed thriller vzith this mysteriously evil chief at
its head. Suddenly, the plot emphasis shifts. Conrad goes to take
his leave of Medora, and in the confrontation that follows he reveals
how painful it is for him to forsake his bride for pirate deeds. He
says farewell and hurries off to join his crew:
Yet once alm.ost he stopped—and nearly gave His fate to chance, his projects to the vzave: But no—it must not be—a worthy chief
May melt, but not betray to Woman's grief. (11. 515-518)
As Canto I comes to a close, Conrad again appears the daring pirate
chief, ready for the enemy encounter toward which his ship is speeding
But the reader's reaction to both the plot and its hero is no longer 79 the same as at the canto's'beginning. Modified by his tenderness toward Medora, Conrad still seems brave but without his former fierce ness. His pure enjoyment of adventure for its ovzn sake is tempered by his conservative desire to defeat the enemy for reasons of achieving safety, peace, and a happy return to Medora's arms. Consequently, the reader now approaches the coming adventures with the wish that they be favorable to Conrad's purposes rather than merely exciting. The tale has become, in effect, a love story rather than an adventure narrative.
Cantos II and III continue to exploit Conrad's virtue of tender ness at the expense of his other characteristics and the plot's quest motif. In the middle of the battle scene opening Canto II, Conrad
allows his advantage over the Pacha to falter while his men carry the harem members to safety. As a result of this compassionate deed, the pirates suffer defeat and Conrad is taken captive. With this resolution
of the original adventure interest Conrad assumes full command of the plot. From this point omzard, the reader's attention focuses on the
suspense of finding out whether or not the hero can escape almost cer
tain death and make his vzay back to Medora. Byron now introduces the
subplot involving Gulnare and Seyd. Although this plot ostensibly provides the story with a renewed source of action, it also has Conrad's personality development as its primary objective. Gulnare is the fair
temptress of Conrad's fidelity to Medora and of his sense of honor.
The pirate chief cannot be shaken, hovzever, from his virtue. Knovzing that Gulnare can help him escape, Conrad still does not hesitate to tell her he loves another and warns her against attempting any foolish deeds 80 to save him from his deserved death. Canto II ends on this suspenseful note as Gulnare leaves, determined to do all she can to save this man she loves and respects.
Byron uses the first 129 lines of Canto III to add more sus pense to the plot, Conrad's remaining crew limps back to the pirate
isle in the battered ship. Medora, already despairing at Conrad's long
absence, slumps into a deathlike melancholy upon hearing the pirates'
uncertain report of Conrad's capture. The drama now is one of time.
Will Conrad return, and if he does will it be before Medora succumbs to her mournful thoughts? The scene switches back to Conrad and Gulnare.
Gulnare is prepared to kill the Pacha for the pirate's sake, but Con
rad continues his refusal to save his life by dishonest villainy.
When Gulnare reveals her murderous courage, Conrad reacts with horror,
shuns her, but nevertheless escapes the Turkish camp with her. In a
final episode between these two characters, Conrad again displays his
virtue and basic kindness by forgiving Gulnare for her unvizomanly vio
lence and treating her with compassion. The final scene of the story
is, of course, Conrad's joyous homecoming, saddened by the heartbreak
ing recognition that Medora, the source of his virtue, is dead. Byron
does not end the tale, hovzever, by showing Conrad returned to his
ruthless role as a pirate. Instead, the hero disappears, leaving the
impression that he will continue his life in accord with the softened aspect of his personality that is presented in the tale.
As this discussion indicates, almost the entire action of The
Corsair revolves around the hero. Only at the beginning of Canto I \can the adventure motif be said to stand by itself. Throughout the
remainder of the story, Conrad's personality never recedes from its
position as shaper and motivator of the plot. Even more interesting
is Byron's management of events so as to emphasize only one character
istic of the pirate leader, which is, quite ironically, Conrad's love
rather than his hate. It is, in fact, Byron's handling of Conrad's
virtuous side which causes some critics to see weaknesses in The
Corsair's technique of plot development and characterization. Lines
193-280 describe Conrad as a lawless and ruthless misanthrope whose
nature has been hardened and "Warped by the vzorld in Disappointment's
school" (1. 253). The reader is informed that:
Feared—shunned—belied—ere Youth had lost her force He hated Man too much to feel remorse. And thought the voice of Wrath a sacred call. To pay the injuries of some on all. (11. 261-264) This initial portrait of the hero is not carried out by the action of
the plot. Critic Francis Jeffrey comments:
The character of the hero is needlessly loaded in the descrip tion of crimes and vices of which his conduct affords no indication. He is spoken of as an abandoned and unfeeling ruffian—and he uniformly comports himself as a perfect pattern of tenderness and humanity.
As a result of this obvious discrepancy in Conrad's character presenta
tion, critics also point to faults within the plot, saying that Byron
designs many incidents according to his will for the hero rather than
according to a realistic progression of events. Byron's technique, however, should not be too sharply condemned.
[Jeffrey], Review of The Corsair: A Tale, by Lord Byron, p. 220. 82
Even if the plot seems occasionally forced in its arrangement of incidents, the overall result still succeeds in being quite sus penseful. Although the basic quest interest dies out at the beginning of Canto II, the reader finds Conrad's plight an even more intriguing substitute. Thus, Byron's plot management has no glaring inadequacies.
A similar stand can be taken for Byron's characterization. While
Conrad's insistence on rescuing the harem and his delicacy regarding
Seyd's murder appear to be questionable actions, they are not unmoti vated. Byron, by showing Conrad's feelings toward Medora in Canto I, prepares the reader to accept the hero's later deeds of softness as a manifestation of a personality trait. Paul Elledge contends that
Byron's presentation of character is really very skillful:
The whole tenor of the narrative seems to suggest that he [Conrad] unlike Byron's earlier protagonists, is not a humanized abstraction; rather his secondary attribute, "softness," offsets and diminishes the importance of his prevailing characteristic."
If these considerations are taken into account, Byron's technique in
The Corsair demands its share of admiration.
Considering Byron's successful handling of the major techniques in The Corsair, it would be disappointing to discover a serious flaw in his treatment of the minor technical aspects of the tale's construction.
Fortunately, the poet's use of pace, time and setting poses no problems.
The pace of the narrative, in this case, is extremely well-balanced due to the poem's extensive passages in dialogue. Except for lines 1169-
1233 at the beginning of Canto III, Byron keeps his usual reflective
Elledge, Byron and the Dynamics of Metaphor, p. 18. 83 passages to a minimum. Those parts..of the tale related in pictorial fashion.offer the reader a rest from the intensity of the dramatic scenes, but because Byron seldom strays from portraying Conrad as his main subject, the flow of the narrative retains a steady and absorb^ ing pace. The time sequence follows a chronological order based on the hero's adventures. Clement Goode objects to the opening scene of
Canto III (Medora and the pirates) as an illogical and fragmentary interruption of the Conrad-oriented time pattern. As indicated earlier in the discussion of plot (see p. 80, supra), this break has relevance to the suspense of the story. Consequently, the scene's disturbance of the time line is of little concern when considering its total effectiveness within the action of the plot. Byron is also skillful in his development of setting. In only one place (11.
1169-1233) does the poet indulge his penchant for a lush description of nature, and such description is employed mainly to set the mood of the following episode. The Eastern flavor of the tale derives from
Byron's portrayal of the Turkish camp in Canto II, but except for the first 43 lines the description is mixed with the action. This mixture is the key to Byron's unobtrusive technique of scene description in
The Corsair.
In The Corsair's dedicatory letter to Thomas Moore, Byron states that he chose to vzrite this tale in ". . . the best adapted mea- „8 sure to our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet.
Goode, "Byron's Early Romances; A Study," p. 174. o Byron, Poetry, III, p. 224. 84
The poet used this verse form with trepidation because his earlier experiments with-it had not been popular. His fears were unfounded, for The Corsair's.language and style rank high among the tale's admir able features. Francis Jeffrey praises this aspect of the tale quite generously:
We shall not be positive that the charm may not be partly at least in the subject—but we certainly never read so many ten-syllabled couplets together before with so little feeling of heaviness or monotony.^
Critics today continue to find The Corsair's style pleasing and enjoy able. The heroic couplets, rather than seeming awkward or outmoded, are quite pleasing to the ear. Byron is careful to arrange breaks within the lines so that the rhythm does not become monotonous.
Enjambment, though infrequently employed after the second line of the couplet, offers additional variety. The sentence structure is uncom plicated. The greatest aid to Byron's style is, however, his vocabulary, which tempts the reader's every sense to participate in the reading of the story. A preciseness in word choice makes the following passage a particularly good example:
Again he hurries on—and as he hears The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears. The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore. The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar, As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast. The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast. The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge That mute Adieu to those who stem the surge; And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft. He marveled how his heart could seem so soft. (11. 521-530)
^[Jeffrey], p. 206. 85
With all of these factors combining in its favor, the style of The
Corsair proves an additional asset to the tale's narrative technique.
Although this discussion has not explored every noteworthy aspect of The Corsair, it is doubtful that any amount of further exam
ination would significantly alter the conclusions already established about the tale. In practically every respect. The Corsair is a good narrative. The omniscient viex^zpoint of the romance is consistently employed and provides smooth narration between the dramatic episodes.
The form partakes of dramatic forcefulness because of the skillful
arrangement of passages in dialogue. The plot has unity, action, and
intrigue. The arrangement of pace, time, and setting contribute to
the work's effectiveness without demanding unusual attention in them
selves. Even Byron's sometimes deadly heroic couplets are polished
and perfected to keep the narrative flowing easily. Only with regard
to characterization has the work been occasionally faulted, and iron
ically so, for The Corsair is focused almost entirely on the presenta
tion of its hero, Conrad. But that vzhich is lacking in the tale's
characterization technique is more than amply provided by the combined success of the romance's other techniques. Byron was so adept at balancing all the technical considerations vzith one another vzhile
focusing them around Conrad that The Corsair can be considered a significant triumph in the poet's development of narrative technique. 86
Lara
On August 6, 1814, Lara, the fourth of Byron's romances, was published in a volume of poetry along with Jacqueline, a tale by Samuel
Rogers. Although the published edition simply identified the work as
"a Tale," Byron's manuscript indicated that Lara was a sequel to The
Corsair and the advertisements for the tale supplied the public with this information. Ever since that time, readers have had no difficulty in picturing Lara as the former Conrad, and Kaled as the disguised Gul nare, and so the work has almost always been linked with its predecessor when critical judgments seek to interpret it or comment upon it. It would be unfair and unprofitable to compare the two tales just because of a connection between their protagonists, but critical research reveals other similarities of the tales that make it logical to study The Corsair and Lara in relation to one another. The most obvious of these similar ities is the concentration upon character presentation, the predominant trait that controls the organization of both vzorks. In Lara, however, the method of attaining this concentration is quite different from the process used in The Corsair.
A comparison of Byron's sequential tales seldom reflects upon
The Corsair, for this tale is vzell able to stand upon its ovzn merits.
It is Lara that receives the brunt of the criticism, most of which re sults in labeling the poem an inferior copy of the earlier vzork. The criticisms are justified, for Lara is weaker technically than The
Corsair, but then, so are most of the other Oriental romances. Lara, therefore, need not be condemned merely because it does not meet the WA
87
high standards of The Corsair. The work deserves to be judged accord
ing to its own ability to meet ..the objective goals of good narrative
technique. While it will be impossible to discuss Lara without making
reference to The Corsair, the observations should be regarded as pro
viding information instead of judgment. In some instances, of course,
lara surpasses its predecessor in the successful or unique use of a
certain technique.
It has been noted that Byron, in The Corsair, achieved the suc
cessful presentation of Conrad through a balanced and x^zell-integrated
use of narrative technique. Although almost every aspect of technique
centered upon the hero, the poet was careful not to destroy the integ
rity of his viex^oint, form, and plot for the sake of his whims con
cerning characterization. The result was a tale containing good
narrative interest as well as a memorable character. Lara also con
centrates upon the development of its protagonist, but in this case,
Byron compromises his narrative structure in order to present a hero
who Peter Thorslev describes as darker, more Gothic and less sympathetic
than Conrad. While this hero, Lara, succeeds in being an even more
fascinating character than Conrad, the effect springs from Byron's
return to a Giaour-like method of creating mystery by withholding inform
ation. As in the earlier tale, a considerable portion of Lara's organi
zation depends upon the poem's viewpoint.
Lara has a distinct narrator who tells the story. Unlike the
storytellers of The Giaour and The Siege of Corinth, the person relating
Thorslev, The Byronic Hero; Types and Prototypes, p. 160. 88 the events is not identified by any specific sentiments or an intro ductory passage of description. Instead, he appears to be a.neutral party to all of the proceedings and serves as a fairly objective reporter of the situation. He occasionally indulges a mild sympathy for Lara as lines 61-64 illustrate:
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins No more than pleasure from the stripling wins; And such, if not yet hardened in their course. Might be redeemed, nor ask a long remorse.
Because this narrator seems so unobtrusive at the beginning of the work, the reader inclines to regard him as omniscient. Before long, hox^ever, the reader perceives that the narrator's remarks are based on an out ward view of Lara, making the narrator a minor character observer of the action. If Byron had employed this vievzpoint as consistently as the omniscient approach to The Corsair, Lara might have been an inter esting contrast and foil for the style of the earlier tale. The point of view in Lara, however, is plagued by erratic changes similar to those marring the vievzpoint in The Giaour and The Siege of Corinth.
Lara's narrator depends primarily on tvzo points of viev7 from which to make his observations. In the first of these viewpoints, he stands removed from the action and acts to compile and summarize inform ation gleaned from several sources. These sources are usually the rumors spread about Lara by his servants or by the local peasants. The narrator takes the rumors, interprets them as objectively as possible, and uses the resulting mixture as background or transitional material for the other scenes. Clement Goode says that this viewpoint based on 89 gossip or rumor forms the controlling spirit of the poem."^"^ The second point of view communicates the narrator's direct observations of the hero. In these instances, he provides a detailed and dramatic account of his own reactions to Lara from the position of a peripheral partici pant in the action. These passages contain some dialogue and serve as the focal episodes of the story. In general, these two viewpoints are compatible with one another. The narrator is consistent in using the direct manner of observation only in scenes where it is logical for him to be present (for instance, the party at Otho's castle, and the battle scene). When he wishes to comment upon happenings V\zithin Lara's hall, he reverts to rumor or a second-hand account of the proceedings. The successful working of these viewpoints is jeopardized by the unfortunate introduction of a third viewpoint: the omniscient.
It is obvious from the text that Byron did not intend to include the omniscient viewpoint as a separate vantage place for observing the action. Most often, the omniscient point of view subtly intrudes in a summary passage where the narrator is speculating upon a possible inter pretation of Lara's reported actions. Only a reader of The Corsair would notice that some of the narrator's surmises are a little too accur ate for a man unacquainted with Lara's pirate past. Lines 289-312 are organized in this way. The narrator is questioning why Lara tries to hide his traits of softness under a tough exterior and proposes this reason:
•'"•^Goode, "Byron's Early Romances; A Study," p. 176. 90
In self-inflicted penance of a breast Which Tenderness might once have wrung from Rest; In vigilance of Grief that would compel The soul to hate for having loved too well. (11. 309-312)
The passage seems uncanny in its perception of the Medora-Conrad relationship.
In other places, the narrator blatantly assumes to interpret
Lara's thoughts, and it is for these vagaries that Byron's workmanship receives sharp criticism. The most notable passage in this regard is that from lines 155-200. Critic Robert Gleckner deplores the poet's sloppy shifting of tense and dislikes the cheap melodrama evoked by
Byron's hinting that the narrator really knows more than he is reveal- 12 ing. William Marshall tries to be more charitable by explaining the tense confusion as Byron's use of emotional rather than intellectual force, but even he finds it difficult to believe a narrator who inter mittently makes brilliant observations but cannot arrive at any of the 13 obvious conclusions. The poem's viewpoint would have been much more convincing had Byron clearly differentiated the sections spoken from above the narrator's position. As it is, however, Lara and its hero gather some unconvincing suspense because of Byron's ill-concealed intrusion upon his narrator's line of vision.
Byron's inconsistency of viewpoint would hardly be noticeable if the poet had balanced the romance with a dramatic form or a fast- moving plot. Unfortunately, he did neither. The form of Lara is best
12 Gleckner, Byron and the Ruins of Paradise, p. 158. 13 Marshall, The Structure of Byron's Major Poems, p. 53. 91
described as episodic although the term must be qualified somewhat
because the work does not fit Enholm's.definition precisely. According
to Enholm, the episodes of this type story do not need to be intri
cately connected, but they should be part of a logical chain of events
leading to a final climax and resolution. The hero's death serves as
^^^^'^ climax, but it does not really resolve any of the episodes
except the battle scene of which it is an integral part. Likewise,
the earlier episodes themselves (Lara's ghostly seizure in his hall,
Sir Ezzelin's challenge and resulting death, and Lara's duel with Otho)
do not seem to point to Lara's death for their conclusion. Instead,
the explanation of Lara's past, which would solve the mystery associated
with these events, is actually hindered rather than helped by the death
of Lara and Kaled. Wliile a complete examination of the tale's plot
development will provide more information about Lara's strange arrange
ment of events, this evidence indicates that the form of the work is
only loosely episodic. The poem's structure also suffers from a lack
of dialogue, lines 415-509 being the only lengthy passage where the
characters reveal themselves through speech. Although the narrator's
eye-witness accounts provide some dramatic tension, they still keep the
action at one remove from the reader. In terms of its structure and
form, therefore, Lara offers scanty dramatic interest to offset the
narrator's direction of the story.
In addition to having a non-dramatic form, Lara has an unusual
plot arrangement that is decidedly anticlimactic. In the first canto,
Byron seems to be organizing the story into a series of events that 92 will gradually reveal Lara's past and, consequently, explain his sudden return to his homeland. The narrator begins by explaining vzhat he knovzs about Lara's boyhood, and then he offers a few general remarks designed to initiate the suspense of the tale. He alludes to Lara's dislike of questions about the past as well as to the hero's loneliness. The nar rator, however, cannot explain these characteristics of Lara from his own limited knowledge, and so the reader prepares to discover the hero's former adventures in the succeeding events of the story.
The first episode appears quite promising. Lara's servants awake to a fearful shriek and find their lord lying unconscious upon the floor with a look of frightening horror on his face. Lara has obviously seen a ghost from the past, and the reader anticipates an explanation that will answer some questions. When Lara speaks, however, he uses a foreign tongue that only Kaled can understand, and the reader finds out disappointingly little. After the narrator inserts some more of his own speculations, the second episode occurs. Lara is at Otho's festival when Sir Ezzelin draws everyone's attention by crying, '"'Tis he!—how came he thence?—what doth he here?'" (1. 426). As Sir Ezzelin proceeds with his accusations against Lara, the hero stops him, proclaims
Ezzelin a liar, and prepares to leave the festivities. Otho, however, proposes that the two knights resolve their differences the next day, and he pledges himself for Ezzelin's honor. On this expectant note,
Canto I comes to a close. The reader, up to this point, is encouraged to believe that Canto II will answer the question of Lara's mysterious background. 93
Canto II is a disappointment .for the reader. Tlie meeting
between Lara and Ezzelin never takes place. When Ezzelin fails to
show up the next morning to tell what he knows about Lara, the hero
vents his wrath upon Otho, nearly killing the other ruler. While the
scene shows Lara's merciless and ugly temperament in an exciting inci
dent, it still leaves his previous existence in shadow. The narrator also reports that Ezzelin's disappearance cannot be explained. There
is no evidence of murder but the people have a ". . . strange Suspicion, whispering Lara's name" (1. 766). Following line 771, the original plot motivation seems to disappear in favor of a more specific story conflict involving Otho and Lara, who have become enemies since their quarrel over Sir Ezzelin's honor. The narrator seems to forget his musings upon
Lara's past history and switches to an analysis of the hero's present activities, namely, Lara's friendliness tovzard the peasants and his free ing of ". . . the soil-bound slaves" (1. 863). On the same day that Lara frees his subjects and forms an army, Otho attacks Lara's realm. The next lines (through 1190) resolve the Otho-Lara conflict through the description of the battle scene and Lara's death. t>!hile Lara's death brings the story to a logical ending, there are still many untidy ends left uninvestigated. Kaled's female identity comes to notice, and the narrator (11. 1195-1242) offers a peasant's tale and some of his ovm comments as a solution to Ezzelin's disappearance. The main suspense of the tale, hovzever, never receives an explanation; Lara's past history is as little revealed at the end of the story as at the beginning. 94
Byron's unusual plot technique in Lara has not escaped critical comments of varying degrees and natures. Most of the critics aim their remarks at the poet's handling of Ezzelin's part in the story. George
• «
Ellis, a nineteenth century reviewer, proclaims that without Sir
Ezzelin's resuscitation "... Lara's mysterious vision in his antique hall, becomes a mere useless piece of lumber, inapplicable to any 14 intelligible purpose." Both he and William Marshall deplore Byron's sloppy attempt at solving Ezzelin's story by having the narrator retell
the peasant's observations and insinuate that Lara vzas the murderer.
Marshall suggests that the plot gains unity if Kaled kills Ezzelin, and he makes a strong case for his argument by drawing upon Gulnare's vin dictive murder of Seyd in The Corsair. The weakness of Marshall's
comments and those of various other critics, hovzever, rests in their
reliance upon a knowledge of The Corsair for either criticizing or praising Lara's plot. To be objective about Byron's technique, Lara
should be considered as an isolated tale apart from the reader's asso-
ciational transfer of material from The Corsair. If the story is viewed separately, Ezzelin's avzkvzard disappearance does not seem as
crucial to the plot's weakness as does the poet's failure to resolve
the mystery of Lara's background.
Byron's techniques of setting and style have also received some
unfavorable comments. Except for Parisina, Lara is the only romance
•'"^[George Agar Ellis], Review of The Corsair, a Tale by Lord Byron, and Lara, a Tale by Lord Byron, in the Q'uarterly Review, XI (July, 1814), 452.
•"•^Marshall, The Structure of Byron's Major Poems^, pp. 51-52. 95 which contains no Oriental motif. The reader is encouraged by the poet's reference to "serfs" and "peasants," "knights" and "feudal
Chiefs" to picture the action happening within a medieval society.
But aside from the general description of lines 646-663, the work is devoid of Byron's usual landscape painting or atmospheric flavor.
Karl Kroeber identifies the lack of setting as a major flaw: "The indefiniteness of time and locale weakens what might have been a power ful narrative." On the other hand, Paul Elledge finds Byron's setting in Lara particularly noteworthy just because it avoids the usual Orien tal colorings. He compliments the poet for using setting more discreetly as an aid to the action of the work: "Most of the alarming and conjec tural events of the narrative occur in moonlight or shadowy half-light, which of course intensifies the mysteriousness they are meant primarily to convey." Both critics present interesting ideas, but Byron's set ting in Lara deserves a rating between these two extremes. The lack of a distinctive locale does not really harm the story interest, although it diminishes a charming part of the poet's technique which might have been a useful distraction in this tale. Byron's subsequent adaptation of his usually lavish description to the illumination of the action is, as Elledge contends, quite effective. When it is considered in connec tion with other aspects of Lara's technique, hovzever, the "shadovzy half- light" only adds to the melodrama of the vzhole tale.
1 6 Kroeber, Romantic Narrative Art, p. 142. 17 Elledge, ByrojQ and the Dynamics of Metaphor, p. 22. 96
The stylistic features of Lara resemble those of The Corsair.
Byron again employs the heroic couplet, and again this verse form
seems effective. The poet's vocabulary is less vivid than in The
Corsair, but only an occasional sentence or two suffers from an
awkward choice or arrangement of words. One unusual aspect of Lara's
style is Byron's frequent use of questions. The questions appear in
passages of the text where the narrator is offering his own speculations
or else reporting the surmises heard through gossip. In the following
lines, which provide a typical example of this technique, the story
teller is relating the servants' reactions to Lara's midnight seizure:
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke Those strange wild accents; his the cry that broke Their slumber? his the oppressed, o'erlaboured heart That ceased to beat, the look that made them start? Could he who thus had suffered so forget. When such as saw that suffering shudder yet? Or did that silence prove his memory fixed Too deep for words, indelible, unmixed In that corroding secrecy which gnaws
The heart to shovz the effect, but not the cause? (11.275-284)
The questioning device accords well vzith Byron's generally mysterious
tone of the piece and his creation of a hypothesizing narrator. Never
theless, the reader tires of it quickly, and by the end of the poem he
finds even a lone question somevzhat trite in its forced attempt to arouse a moment's suspense.
With all of its faults and peculiarities enumerated in this manner, Lara seems to have small possibility of claim.ing any unusual distinction as a narrative. Although the poem does not have the well- balanced appeal of The Corsair, it does contain one particularly 97 outstanding creation of Byron's.genius: Lara himself. Whatever the failures attributed to the tale's plot, form, or viewpoint, they can not really dim the unforgetable characteristics of the brooding, lonely, and mysterious Lara. Part of the poet's success in presenting the hero derives from a specific method of characterization. The greater portion of Lara's overwhelming dominance of the story is achieved, however, by default. Because Byron permits technical inconsistencies to mar the interest of the tale's viewpoint and plot and allows dullness to invade
Lara's form and setting, the reader naturally looks to the main char acter as a source of interest. More than any other facet of the romance,
Byron's characterization of Lara seems to have a coherent plan.
In his development of Lara, Byron consistently increases the images that identify the main character as being a solitary, prideful person with a strain of coldness or hardness in his composition. At the beginning of the story, the narrator tends to overlook the hero's first impression of sternness:
He lives, nor yet is past his Manhood's prime. Though seared by toil, and something touched by Time; His faults, vzhate'er they were, if scarce forgot. Might be untaught him by his varied lot; Nor good nor ill of late were knovzn, his name
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: (11. 55-60)
After each incident revealing more of Lara's behavior, the narrator remarks more and more upon the hero's "... vital scorn of all" (1.313) and his ". . . chilling mystery of mien" (1. 361). Eventually, the storyteller is so convinced of Lara's selfish nature and overvzeaning pride that he mocks the hero's seeming friendliness tox-zard the serfs: 98
And cared he for the freedom of the crovzd? He raised.the humble but to bend the proud.
In voice mien—gesture—savage nature spoke. And from his eye the gladiator broke. (11. 897-898;
907-908)
The final verification of Lara's nature comes when he scorns the Chris tian comfort offered him at death: For when one near displayed the absolving Cross, And proffered to his touch the holy bead. Of which his parting soul might ovzn the need. He looked upon it with an eye profane, And smiled—Heaven pardon! if 'twere with disdain: (11. 1122-
1126)
Only Kaled's concern for the dying Lara and the revelation that the page is a woman offer a note of softness to the hero's character at the end of the tale. He, like all of Byron's other characters, has a virtue of true love for a woman that earns some of the reader's sympathy. ,
As Byron's character development of Lara illustrates, the romance has a unity and progression of events that an isolated analysis of plot and vievzpoint does not reveal. In order to comprehend this fact, hovz ever, the reader must relinquish his attention to the details of tech nique and focus all his perception on the character of Lara. While the reader is still likely to be frustrated by the narrator's inconsisten-
I cies, the lack of dialogue, and Byron's stylistic peculiarities,Vthe plot of the story ceases to be so anticlimactic after he perceives that
Byron has an overall plan for the events of the tale. As Karl Kroeber observes, Byron arranges his plot to show the hero's behavior interact- 1 o ing with a social group. Viewed in this manner, the different episodes
18Kroeber , Romantic Narrative Art, p. 144. 99 of the story (Lara with his servants, Lara and the knights, and Lara with the peasant army) have a logical order designed to show the main character's increasing ineffectiveness in communicating vzith other people. It is essential then to Byron's basic plan that Lara should remain a mystery to the end, for this concludes the poet's purpose of showing the hero to be a lonely person, haunted by a past he cannot overcome except in death. Lara's death is not anticlimactic; it is the long awaited release for the hero's now purposeless existence. His servants distrust him, Otho hates him, Ezzelin's disappearance has marred his reputation, and his army is defeated and his land captured.
His venture in a new land has failed, and his death is the appropriate climax to this failure.
Despite the story interest that is generated by Lara himself, many critics and readers will continue to find Byron's fourth romance a dull sequel to The Corsair. Looking at the poet's handling of nar rative technique from an abstracted vantage point, they will have no problem in proving their sentiments. The viewpoint of the tale is inconsistently employed and exhibits Byron's inability to avoid insert ing his ovzn remarks to increase the melodrama of the story. The work's form is non-dramatic and the plot seems to follovz a pattern that is anticlimactic. The poem's pace and time line are acceptable but unex citing as are Lara's setting and style. The evidence exists, but it would be a discredit to Byron's artistry to leave the tale with such an unfavorable reputation. Lara has merits if the reader is willing to 100 focus his examination upon the main character. To concentrate on
Lara s personality, however, demands more energy than in Byron's other romances, for Lara is not immediately accessible to the reader
through the usual love conflict. The discernment of Lara's charac
teristics through his interaction with societal groups demands extra
insight and perseverance. The result is worth the trouble. Viewed
primarily according to its presentation of a character, Lara acquires
a new significance and a new cohesiveness. Perhaps Byron should
actually be commended for making his other techniques so uninteresting
or illogical that he forces his reader to explore the achievements
that can be wrought through a skillful exploitation of characterization. CHAPTER IV
VENTURES IN DRAMA
The Bride of Abydos
While Byron was still adding lines to The Giaour, he wrote
The Bride of Abydos, the second of the Oriental romances. The tale
is something of a legend in regard to its composition, for Byron
claimed that it was "the work of a week" and had been written "...
for the sake of employment,—to wring my thoughts from reality, and
take refuge in 'imaginings,' however 'horrible.'" According to Byron's biographers, the reality he was trying to escape consisted of an unfor
tunate attachment to a friend's wife, Lady Frances Wedderburn. Perhaps
this romantic affair explains why The Bride of Abydos is unusual among
Byron's narratives for a particularly poignant presentation of the love between its hero and heroine, Selim and Zuleika. The tender love story of Selim and Zuleika is not the only exceptional aspect of the tale;
The Bride of Abydos is also remarkable for its essentially dramatic form.
Although Byron is not completely successful in sustaining the drama
throughout the tale, his attempt to present the major portion of the action through dialogue constitutes a significant development of his narrative art. Unfortunately, Byron's motivation for choosing a dra matic medium is less easily determined than is his reason for treating a romantic subject with special emphasis. A thorough examination of
Byron, Letters and Journals, II, p. 293,
101 102 technique in Th^ Bri^ of_ Abydos will, nevertheless, offer some explanation regarding other features of the poem which contribute to the work's dramatic form of presentation.
As the foregoing examination of four Byron narratives has already shown, the determining of a vzork's form requires that several factors of technique be taken into consideration. More than any other technical feature of a work, form depends upon the combined arrange ment of several lesser techniques for its complete definition and analysis. Viewpoint and plot are almost always examined before a work's form can be evaluated. The Bride of Abydos, however, has already been labeled as dramatic in form, a judgment which might be regarded as somewhat premature. Therefore, a word of explanation is necessary before an analysis of the tale's other aspects of technique is attempted. While it is possible that Byron conceived this work in a dramatic format and organized other techniques accordingly, it is also possible that a reverse process (involving a fortunate combina tion of individual techniques) resulted in the poem's final form.
Because the latter method has usually been observed in the discussions of this paper, it vzill also be followed in the analysis of The Bride of
Abydos as a matter of consistency. Separate aspects of narrative tech nique will be evaluated for their individual contributions to the work's dramatic classification. Such a procedure does not intentionally rule out the contrasting supposition that Byron's initial choice of a dra matic form dictated his use of other techniques. Ideally, of course, a poem's composition derives from a combination of both approaches. 103
The narrator of The Bride of Abydos resembles the storyteller of The Corsair except that he is even less visible within the action of the story. He is omniscient, but he seldom uses his powers of interior exploration. As Robert Gleckner observes, the characters provide the different points of view quite naturally in dialogue, mono logue, and soliloquy so that the narrator is only occasionally nec- 2 cessary. The narrator provides a view of Selim's thoughts in lines
105-114 and speaks for Zuleika in lines 253-286, but usually he con fines himself to supplying narrative transition more than interior views of the characters. In this tale, the narrator functions pri marily as a sort of stage manager who sets the scene and positions the characters within it. The beginning stanzas of both cantos and the concluding 150 lines of the poem sho\j him in this capacity. In Gleck-- ner's opinion, he is a commentator who reveals the significance and 3 universality of the story action. Lines 973-1064 comprise his only significant narration of the action, and his presence here is necessary because the characters are unable to communicate their movements or feelings through speech. Assigned to such a minor part in the story, the narrator does little to influence or slant the tale's point of view.
The viewpoint in The Bride of Abydos demands commendation for being especially objective. Although the narrator's role is minimized, he still has sufficient latitude in which to indicate a preference for
2 Gleckner, ^vron. arid^ ^e Ruins of Paradise, p. 121. ^Ibid. 104 the hero or heroine against Giaffir, the villain of the tale. As in the case of Byron's other narrators, he indicates his alignment with
Selim and Zuleika but in an unusually disguised manner. He does not tell the reader that Giaffir is a tyrant or that Selim is chafing under his father's yoke, but he sarcastically intimates that such is certainly the case:
But here young Selim silence brake, First lowly rendering reverence meet; And downcast looked, and gently spake. Still standing at the Pacha's feet: For son of Moslem must expire, Ere dare to sit before his sire! (11. 47-52)
In a similar manner, the narrator coyly analyzes Zuleika's anger and disappointment over Giaffir's proclaimed plans for her marriage to the Bey Oglou:
And if her eye was filled with tears That stifled feeling dare not shed. And changed her cheek from pale to red, And red to pale, as through her ears Those winged words like arrows sped.
What could such be but maiden fears? (11. 220-225)
As the tale continues, of course, the narrator is less careful to protect his objective stand. His subtle insinuations in the first lines of the poem, however, contribute effectively to the subsequent drama of the characters' o\m revelations. The remarks also keep his position hidden behind a humorously naive facade, an unusual pose for
Byron's generally serious, all-seeing narrators.
In addition to having an unobtrusive narrator. The Bride of
Abydos has a time line which is also particularly conducive to the 105
dramatic structuring of the story. Although the time span of a story
need not be short for the work to be dramatic, the closely sequential
arrangement of episodes necessary for dramatic form occurs more easily
when the duration of the action is limited. The narrator is able to
avoid long passages of narrative summary, and the incidents have a
constricted scope which keeps the reader from forming conclusions
until the final climax resolves all the smaller facets of the action.
The Bride of Abydos follows this pattern. It has a time span of less
than 24 hours which allows little space for the reader's attention to
lag. Tlie episodes flow naturally into one another. The necessary
background information regarding Selim's history is provided within
the dramatic framevzork of his speech to Zuleika, omitting the possibil
ity of a narrated flashback. Each of the incidents encompasses only a
few minutes. The characters are seen so briefly and reveal themselves
so gradually that the reader has no time to ponder various possibilities
for the action until the climactic fight-death scene. At that point the
tale has already achieved its dramatic conclusion. Thus, the brief dur
ation of The Bride of Abydos supports and extends the intensity of the
individually dramatic scenes.
Outside of the dialogue, vzhich probably contributes most to the
tale's dramatic form, it is Byron's handling of characterization and
plot that dictates the particular structure of this romance. In all of
the other Oriental tales except Parisina, Byron's initial picture of the
hero immediately casts the main character as a man of virility and pas
sion. To keep from emasculating these men, the poet must reveal their
i^L. 106 personalities through action and adventure, a task best accomplished through narration. In contrast to these heroes, Selim presents him self to the reader as a youth who has still to participate in his first manly enterprise. He appears diffident, condescending, and almost feminine as he relates his morning walk in the garden with Zuleika (11.
56-76). Peter Thorslev labels Selim as Byron's "... almost pure Hero of Sensibility." Although Selim gives evidence of a more vibrant temperament before Canto I concludes, it is not until line 785, where he begins relating his pirate adventures, that he actually shows himself to be a man of action. Because of this subdued approach to Selim's character, Byron can more easily tighten his story form. Selim is not an active hero so there is no reason to develop his characterization through a wide-ranging series of escapades. In addition, his own early admission that he is something of a poet (11. 60-62) provides a very logical explanation for his revealing himself through speech and con versation vzith the other characters. His particular personality seems ideally suited to the poet's dramatic purposes.
Byron's plot technique in The Bride of Abydos also acts to pro mote the dramatic form of the story. A vital consideration in this regard is the poet's centering of the action upon an uncertain love relationship between Selim and Zuleika. For one thing, a love conflict involves the communication of feelings, and this communication is most
Thorslev, The Byronic Hero; Types and Prototypes, p. 154. 107 naturally accomplished through dramatic dialogue by the two characters
involved. More importantly, the uncertainty of a romantic situation
(unlike an adventure sequence) can be quickly resolved in a short span
of time. For both of these reasons, the Selim-Zuleika story is well
adapted to a dramatic mode of presentation.
The first scene between Giaffir, Selim, and Zuleika establishes
the background for a quick succession of events. Selim, who is obvi
ously seething under Giaffir's paternalistic derision of his manliness,
is tolerating his position because of an uncommonly close attachment
to his sister, Zuleika. In lines 53-80 he reveals his enjoyment of
Zuleika's company and his protectiveness tovizard her. It appears, how
ever, that the fond relationship between brother and sister is soon to
be broken up. Giaffir orders Zuleika into his presence and tells her
that she will become the bride of a powerful Moslem warrior. Her
reaction indicates a quiet distress. As Giaffir exits from the hall,
she and Selim are left alone. In the ensuing scene, several decisions
are made which dictate the rapid movement of Canto II. Zuleika, who is
saddened by her brother's pensive mood, tries to cheer him with her
feminine games and finally ends by declaring her love for him. Selim
responds with a similar proclamation. With the confidence gained from knowing that Zuleika is his love, Selim feels assured that this is the moment to enact his rebellion. The lovers separate upon Selim's promise
that he will explain his strangely angry behavior to Zuleika that even ing. Thus, the speedy resolution of the Selim-Zuleika relationship propels the story in a nevz direction. 108
Without the impetus of the love story. Canto II might have
been differently arranged according to a non-dramatic format. Selim
might still have been impelled to leave his father's house in favor of
pirate adventures, but there would have been little motivation for him
to reveal his ancestry. Likewise, his tragic death would have had few
consequences for Zuleika, Giaffir, or the reader. Because of Selim and
Zuleika's affection for one another, however, the events of Canto II
have a logical place in the drama of the story. Selim wishes to embark
upon his new course of action immediately, but he realizes that Zuleika
must be informed of his reasons for the undertaking if she is to remain
faithful in her love. His romantic commitment causes the hero to relate
the story of his lineage and past experiences through the medium of
dramatic monologue. Although these lines (666-972) are basically in a
narrative style, their intensity is heightened by the reader's imagining
of the effect of these words upon Zuleika. Before Zuleika has a chance
to react to the discourse, Selim notices the approach of his enemies and
flees to the safety of an awaiting boat on the shore. His escape would have been successful except for the final pause taken to catch a final
glimpse of Zuleika. As a result of this romantic gesture, Selim falls
to Giaffir's bullet. Zuleika, in anguish over Selim's departure and her love for him, expires. Only Giaffir is left to reap the sudden and sad remains of a tragically ended romance.
As this plot summary illustrates, Byron's structuring of The
Bride of Abydos evolves quite naturally from the dramatic potential that seems almost inherent to a love story. The usual dialogue needed 109
for the lovers' communication provides an easy source of dramatic presentation even for narrative or non-dramatic passages of informa
tion. In a similar manner, the passionate attachment of Selim and
Zuleika motivates the urgency of the hero's pirate quest and creates
the conditions leading to the final drama in the death of the charac
ters. Oliver Elton observes that the only aspect of the tale which mars its essential drama is the plot's conclusion, which is supplied by the poet's narration after both the hero and heroine have died.^
While this passage, encompassing lines 1065-1214, is over.ly wordy and somewhat tediously anticlimactic, it does not really harm the form of
the work. As Robert Gleckner comments, Byron wisely abstains from detailing the fate of Giaffir and, consequently, avoids any real diffu- sion of the plot. Instead the last 150 lines concentrate only on the two lovers. The effusiveness of the description is in complete accord with the narrator's previous passages given over to elaborate settings.
Basically, then, the plot sequence proves helpful in establishing the poem's tightly organized form.
The element contributing most to the dramatic appearance of
The Bride of Abydos is, of course, the dialogue of the characters.
Byron's technique is not advanced to the extent of simulating a con versational style, but it is relatively effective in allovzing a real istic confrontation of the characters without thp. interference of a narrator. The characters usually address one another in long speeches
^Elton, A Survey of English Literature: 1780-1830, II, p. 147.
Gleckner, Eiyron and the Ruins of Paradise, pp. 351-352. 110 similar to those in The Corsair. Unlike his method in The Corsair, however, the poet weakens the dramatic force of some speeches in The
Bride of Abydos by making them into soliloquies or monologues. An example of a soliloquy occurs in lines 132-157 where Giaffir is speak ing his thoughts about Selim to no listener except the reader audience.
The most notable monologue consists of Selim's personal revelations to
Zuleika in Canto II, which continue without interruption for over 300 lines. The drama of these passages is obviously artificial, although not so noticeably as in similar sections of The Giaour. Despite these flaws, Byron's consistent use of character speech to the exclusion of most narrated comment probably adds more to the work's dramatic form than his irregular or unrealistic passages of dialogue can detract.
Because the dialogue dominates the romance and obscures the narrator, the tale functions successfully as a miniature and primitive drama.
Nevertheless, because of its weaknesses, the dialogue could not sustain the drama of the tale without the support lent by the poet's approach to viewpoint, time, characterization, and plot.
Two aspects of Byron's technique, setting and style, have no real connection with the poem's form, but they assist in giving the narrative additional charm and interest. In The Bride of Abydos, the poet unabashedly indulges his ability to create powerful passages of atmospheric description. Lines 1-19, 483-568, and 1065-1214 are abun dant with images evoking Eastern landscapes and customs. As a result, this tale is without doubt the most Oriental of the six romances in Ill its coloring and shading. The passages devoted to exotic scenery do not, however, disrupt the narrative flow. \^ile Byron frequently inter rupts his other tales to insert reflective comments or lengthy character descriptions, his technique in this work is conservatively limited to the beginning and end of the cantos. Although these passages are enjoy able just for the pictures they paint, Byron also intends them to aid the overall thematic content of the story.
The first lines of the poem (1-19) are frequently criticized for their resemblance to a poem by the German poet, Goethe. Whether copied or not, the lines supply an appropriate setting for The Bride of Abydos, especially in their images of the cypress and myrtle. The cypress and the myrtle are symbols for death and love, respectively, in Eastern legend. This passage, therefore, serves to foretell the fates of Selim and Zuleika. In Canto II, lines 483-568 concentrate upon imagery devoted to the sea. Most of the images portray the sea's destructive abilities and the poet inserts several references to legendary lovers who have been eternally separated by the violent waters. Not only does this passage set the scene for the midnight revelations of Selim to Zuleika, it also hints of the manner in which
Selim will meet his death and be forever parted from his love. The final passage of scenerio from lines 1065-1214 uses the combined sea and cypress imagery of the previous sections and adds a particular picture of its own: the solitary vzhite rose. The cool beauty of this flovzer
The Bride of^ Abydos is also the only tale in which the hero and all the other characters are Turkish in origin. 112
is Byron's symbol of the mournful peace that attends the final repose
of the hero and heroine.
Byron's verse style in The^ Bride o^ Abydos is marked by an
unusual irregularity. Only The Siege of Corinth comes close to rival
ing the variety of verse in this romance, and even in comparison to
the later tale. The Bride succeeds in being the more complex of the
two. To a great extent, the poet remains faithful to his oft-employed
meter of iambic tetrameter. While this rhythmic pulse forms the basis
for the poem's versification, Byron varies the meter with lines of
anapestic tetrameter or iambic pentameter. In many instances, the
longer lines are inserted so randomly that it is impossible to discern
any purpose for them other than as an aid to variety. Canto I, however,
contains two passages of some consistency that suggest Byron's use of
the anapestic and pentameter lines may be associated with descriptive
scenes needing a gentle touch. In lines 1-19, the poet employs anapests
to enhance the lyric power of his setting:
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, novz madden to crim.e? (H. 1-4)
To describe Zuleika's beauty, Byron uses a series of iambic pentameter
lines from 158-181:
The nameless charms unmarked by her alone— The light of Love, the purity of Grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face. The heart vzhose softness harmonized the whole, And oh! that eye was in itself a Soul! (11. 177-181)
Two similar pentameter passages in Canto II, lines 870-949 and lines 113
1103-1145, also concern Zuleika. At least in selected sections, then, the change of meter seems designed for a specific effect of softness.
The rime scheme of the poem likewise has its unevenness, although the variations are hardly noticeable. The poet shifts smoothly between a two-line couplet formation and a four-line, alter nately rimed, ballad pattern. Occasionally, even a three-line rime appears and gently pricks the reader's attention into new activity.
Rather than distracting the reader, Byron's different rime figures actually give the poem a sustaining interest that is sometimes lost in works of a more regular stylistic composition. Even the weakness accompanying the poet's somewhat frequent use of feminine rime endings receives scant attention amid the other irregularities of style. The variations in the verse are also more acceptable in this poem because they add realism to the dialogue. In addition, Byron's sentence struc ture and vocabulary are so easily comprehended and vzell-adapted to the subject matter that The Bride of Abydos achieves an overall fluidity of language in spite of any unusual fluctuations of rime or rhythm. The uneven style of the vzork is, therefore, not detrimental to the poem and perhaps even beneficial in providing realism and variety that accords well with the treatment of the subject matter.
In this discussion of The Bride of Abydos, Byron's narrative technique is analyzed according to its organization around a dramatic format. Several aspects of technique, including vievzpoint, plot, char acterization, time, and dialogue are shovzn to contribute to the poem's dramatic structure. The poet's use of setting and style, while not 114 directly connected with the work's form, add to the work's effective ness and interest. There are, nevertheless, some qualifying remarks that need to be applied to this tale before it can be finally evaluated.
Despite its prominent use of dialogue and its interacting, cause and effect episodes leading to a forceful climax. The Bride of Abydos is not a particularly exciting narrative. The tale contains little action and the speeches given by the characters are wordy and overly descriptive.
As a consequence, the pace of the story is quite dull and, occasionally, even static. Although the pace of a Vv^ork is not of immense critical concern to a narrative's total effectiveness, this one aspect of tech nique wields some strength. In the case of The Bride of Abydos, the uninteresting pace of the poem is sufficiently important to limit the definition of the tale's form to semi-dramatic rather than completely dramatic. Considering that this rom.ance constitutes Byron's first real experiment in a dramatic type of presentation, even a rating of semi- dramatic deserves some admiration.
The cautious limiting of the dramatic form in The Bride of
Abydos does not really reflect on Byron's generally successful narra tive technique in the tale. The vievzpoint is objective, and the omniscient narrator confines his intrusion to scene setting and tran sitional narrative. The time span is brief and proves conducive to the tightly related progression of events. Byron's technique of characterization accords well vzith the subdued action and romantic sub ject matter of the poem. The plot, although it contains an adventure 115
motif, takes its dramatic unity and spontaneity from a central love
story that organizes the plot incidents and provides motivation for
the dialogue. Even the setting and style of the tale contribute
interesting variety while acting to unobtrusively complement the
charm and theme of the work. Working together, these techniques give
The Bride £f Ab;^do£ a dramatic form that is modified, however, by
Byron's sometimes unrealistic use of dialogue for narrative purposes
and by the poem's lagging pace. The poem cannot be considered Byron's
greatest narrative success or even his greatest dramatic success. As
an experiment in dramatic organization, however, The Bride of Abydos
occupies a unique place among the Oriental romances. Its technique
indicates the growth of Byron's narrative approach toward a more uni
fied and intense presentation of his subject material.
Parisina
Parisina, the last of Byron's Oriental romances, has little in
common with the five earlier tales. With a total accumulation of only
586 lines, the tale is less than half the length of the others. Its
setting, although nominally indicated as Ferrara, Italy, has no partic
ular significance and evokes no exotic atm.osphere. Like The Siege of
Corinth, the tale is based on an historic incident, but in this case
the incident has few consequences to the general progress of mankind.
A more distinguishing aspect of Parisina is its characterization, for
the tale contains no figure that could aptly be described as a Byronic hero. While Hugo seems cast in a Byronic mold, the poet fails to 116
develop him into the dominating and lawless protagonist of the earlier
tales. Instead, each of the three main characters receives an impor
tant share of Byron's attention. Combined together, these considera
tions give evidence that Parisina is a singular narrative of rather
unusual dimensions. The only reason for the tale's inclusion in the
Oriental romances rests with its 1815 date of composition and its
joint publication with The_ Siege of Corinth. In general, however,
Byron's technique in Parisina bears vague resemblance to his technique
in the five other romances.
Because of the romance's limited scope and its concentration
upon one incident, many critics identify Parisina as a dramatic nar
rative. In regard to its structure, then, Parisina shares some
similarity to The Bride of Abydos. Wliile the two tales are quite
different in their composition, a few interesting comparisons can be
made. Both romances, for instance, focus upon the intrigues of a love
story for their major plot emphasis. Both contain three characters,
all of whom are substantially developed. The action of both stories
also occurs vzithin the brief time span of one day. Even the inces
tuous relationship found in Parisina is hinted at in the supposed
brother-sister tie betvzeen Selim and Zuleika in The Bride of Abydos.
Despite their parallelism in these areas, the tales contain many
points of contrast. The use of dialogue, the manipulation of vievz point, the introduction of an adventure motif, the variety of setting,
and the development of character indicate the more important areas in
which the two tales differ in technique. Although a comparison of the 117 romances in this manner is somewhat superficial, it does show that
Parisina occupies at least some link within Byron's chain of narra tive development in the other tales. As a more detailed examination is designed to illustrate, Byron's technique in Parisina is a more perfect version of the dramatic presentation with which he experi mented in The Bride of Abydos.
The point of view in Parisina can generally be labeled as omniscient. The narrator moves easily within each character and, as
Clement Goode remarks, the author occasionally shrinks into a certain o character for a brief section of the narrative. Robert Gleckner sees the role of the narrator as being more complex. He says that the narrator is allowed to ". . . seesaw uncertainly between sympathetic 9 omniscience and moral condemnation . . ."in viewing the situation.
The result, he remarks, is ". . .a fine jumbling of various possible points of view which in concert dramatize the impossibility of judg ment." Gleckner is so adamant about the varying points of view in
Parisina that he mentions a possible similarity in this regard to The
Giaour. While the final effect of the two tales' viewpoints (that is, the difficulty of arriving at a moral judgment) may be similar.
o Goode, "Byron's Early Romances; A Study," p. 188. 9
Gleckner, ^Byron and the Ruins of Paradise, p. 178.
-^^Ibid. , p. 183.
•'••'•Ibid., p. 178. 118
Byron's manner of producing this effect is far more subtle in Parisina than in The Giaour. The narrator never limits his omniscience by adopting a particular slanted position for any length of time. He contrives instead to identify for brief moments with a certain group or individual viewpoint that is compatible with his thinking. In this manner he preserves his objectivity vzhile still keeping control of the story's progress.
In lines 81-119, the narrator places himself within Azo's mind and reports the husband's reaction to Parisina's infidelity. At the same time that Azo views his wife with hatred, he also remembers the
failings of his own youth that produced Hugo, now Parisina's partner
in sin. Parisina speaks Hugo's name in her sleep and Azo recalls his
own earlier life:
'Tis Hugo's,—he, the child of one He loved—his oim. all-evil son— The offspring of his wayward youth. When he betrayed Bianca's truth, The maid whose folly could confide In him who made her not his bride. (11. 101-106)
This revelation, while it does not prevent Azo from condemning his wife's adultery, keeps the reader from a vzholehearted approval of
Azo's later action toward the lovers. Thus, with a subtle manipula
tion of his omniscience, the narrator uses Azo himself as the vehicle
for conveying the ambiguity of vievzpoint essential to the tale's
presentation.
At other points in the story, the narrator relies upon the
reaction of the crowd to express certain attitudes. Throughout the 119 entire tale, the group of people that witnesses the events of Hugo's trial and execution occupies a background role comparable to the gossiping servants in Lara. The presence of these onlookers in all the important scenes provides the narrator with a convenient pose from which to view the action. Following Hugo's death, the crowd's response is noted:
Still as the lips that closed in death, Each gazer's bosom held his breath: But yet, afar, from man to man, A cold electric shiver ran. As down the deadly blow descended
On him whose life and love thus ended; (11. 477-482)
By speaking through the voice of the spectators, the narrator protects his anonymity. Occasionally, the storyteller even adopts the plural
"we" form as a means of validating comments that might otherwise reflect his personal opinions. The most prominent example of this technique appears in lines 559-568 where the narrator is probing the possible reasons behind Azo's melancholy existence after the whole affair is long concluded. Remarking upon typical human reactions to sorrow, he says: We check those waters of the heart. They are not dried—those tears unshed But flo\-J back to the fountain head.
Unseen-unwept—but uncongealed, (11. 562-564;
And cherished most where least revealed. 567-568)
As a result of his transformation into so many different forms, the narrator seems practically nonexistent although he still shapes the story from his omniscient standpoint. 120
For a tale that is classified as dramatic in structure,
Parisina contains an unusually small amount of dialogue. Lines 198-
317, which comprise the nucleus of the trial scene, are the only ones given over to character speech except for the short passage from lines 449-452. The longer section contains 25 lines spoken by Azo as he condemns the lovers and 84 lines spoken by Hugo as he attempts to justify his actions vzith Parisina and plead for mercy. Parisina's expected response to these speeches must be related by the narrator
(11. 318'-385) because her emotional condition has left her dumb.
Although the dialogue is minimal, it appears more lengthy and leaves a more dominant impression because of its focal placement within the tale. The trial scene is not the climax of the story, but it is the turning point. The shameful situation must be proclaimed to the public and a punishm.ent must be assigned to the guilty parties. With all three characters present, the scene provides a natural opportunity for drama, and Byron exploits its possibilities. Because of this scene's vital function in determining the tale's conclusion (vzhether or not the lovers vzill be killed), the dialogue of its presentation is pro portionately forceful. In addition, the scarcity of direct speech is compensated for in Byron's skillful handling of other techniques.
Like the arrangement of the time line in The Bride cif_ Abydos, the time span in Parisina is an asset to the tale's form. The action begins on the evening of one day and concludes before the evening of the next day. Lines 502-586 give a summarized description of later 121
events as a means of providing the story with a satisfying and gradual
denouement. The essential events of the story, however, are contained
within the 24 hour period covered through line 501. In contrast to
The Bride £f Abydos, the pace of Parisina's narrative also flows as
smoothly as the time line. There are no lengthy pauses between events
where a character or the narrator takes the opportunity to supply back
ground information. There are no long dialogues in which the characters
expatiate upon their emotions. Even the narrator refrains from detailed
character descriptions or elaborate settings. As a result, the pace
follows the swiftness of the time line, although Byron slows it for
variety and emphasis during the crucial trial confrontation. The suc
cessful pace of Parisina is also dependent upon Byron's development of
a unified and straightforward plot.
In all the other romances, Byron is much more interested in
presenting an intriguing hero than he is in developing a cohesive plot.
These heroes usually possess two dominant and partially conflicting
traits, emotional sensitivity and unreasoning pride. In order to
exhibit these traits, the poet involves his characters in two plot
progressions, one centered upon a love story and the other upon an
adventure sequence. Parisina, however, lacks both the typical Byronic
hero and the resulting double plot organization. All of the action of
the tale centers around the incestuous relationship of Hugo and Paris
ina. This one focal situation gives the plot a unity and direction
that is quite different from Byron's technique in the earlier tales.
ittt w
111
Nevertheless, the essential success of Parisina's plot depends just
as much on the poet's balanced handling of the several plot events
as it does on the plot's singleness of situation. If Byron had been
less careful in adjusting the relative importance of the various
scenes, the plot might have suffered from a misdirected emphasis or a
jerky pace. As it is, the tale is skillfully organized around a grad
ual buildup of incidents, a forceful climax, and a brief but sufficient
resolution.
Lines 1-64 present the initial situation in a short scene.
Hugo and Parisina meet to share a clandestine moment of passion. The
narrator avoids detail and summarizes the mixed emotions of joy and
guilt that torment the lovers' breasts. The next section, from lines
65-131, establishes the motivating conflict. Parisina's husband, Azo,
discovers the affair from his wife's sleeping speech and confirms his
discovery by consulting Parisina's servants. Azo immediately calls
his nobles and guards for a trial. The trial scene, as already observed,
is the longest and most dramatic. It extends from lines 132-385 and
presents the action in minute detail. Because this scene does not actu
ally represent the climax of the action, Byron might be criticized for
making it too lengthy and, accordingly, slowing the pace. The reader,
however, is not disturbed at all by the slovzer movement of time. Byron
continues to present a great deal of information for the reader to absorb.
In this passage the personalities of the three characters are revealed.
Background information concerning Hugo's birth and upbringing, his war
rior prowess, and his claim to Parisina is supplied. Most exciting, of 123 course, is Azo's decision regarding the fate of the lovers. Hugo is to be killed and Parisina is destined for imprisonment if she survives the punishment of watching her partner die. The section is filled with emotional nuances. Therefore, although this scene occupies more space than the others, Byron compensates by filling it with necessary and important information.
Following the trial scene, the plot resumes its faster pace as
Byron returns to a summary manner of presentation. Lines 386-501 bal ance the poem's first 131 lines, although in this later passage the poet treats only one scene instead of two. Devoting all the lines to one scene is logical and effective, however, because this scene is the climax of the tale. It relates Hugo's religious preparation for his execution, the execution itself, and Parisina's shriek, "So madly shrill, so passing wild" (1. 489), that signals her despair and final disappearance. The last section of the romance, lines 502-586, serves as the denouement of the story. In it, the poet tells of the consequences of the affair upon
Azo's household. Parisina is never seen again. Her husband remarries, but Azo's existence never escapes a troubled air of sadness. Byron con cludes with a few lines devoted to his o\ The action of the plot, as this examination shows, includes noth ing but the essential events surrounding the incestuous relationship of Hugo and Parisina. There are no diversions, distractions, or superfluous explanations. In addition, Byron easily balances the action around the central trial scene. The scenes before the trial present the situation and introduce the characters. In the more elaborate middle section. PW"" 124 the characters are developed and the conflict is heightened. After the trial, the closing lines provide the story's conclusion and relate the fate of each character. Within the space of 586 lines, the poet has introduced, developed, and concluded a story by limiting himself to one unified plot and progressing in a logical and forthright manner. To accomplish this particular plot technique, Byron was also required to alter his usual method of characterization and setting. The characterization method of Byron's five other romances con centrates on a development of the hero. Substantial passages are devoted to describing him, and his consciousness is freely explored through interior monologue. Even the minor characters sometimes receive elaborate physical descriptions when they are introduced, especially the women. In Parisina, Byron's technique presents all three characters more equally, and his accompanying description is remarkably sparse. None of the characters, in fact, can claim any physical distinction except by an occasional reference (that is, Parisina's "sweet eyelids," Hugo's "rings of chestnut hair," and Azo's "fair broad brow"). Their thoughts are opened to view either by their own speech or the narrator's omniscience, but only for short passages which are distributed evenly among them. Basically, Byron confines his character presentation vzithin the logical boundaries provided by the story action. The characters are developed to accommodate the plot's needed fullness and depth, but the poet refrains from allowing their personalities to interrupt the flow of events. Because Parisina, Hugo, and Azo must share the limelight and 125 because their developments are brief, Byron identifies each of them with a characteristic trait. The trait adds continuity and consis tency to their different appearances throughout the tale. In his first description of Parisina, Byron indicates that the girl is strongly emotional. As she waits for her lover: . . . her cheek grows pale, and her heart beats quick. There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves. And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves: (11. 24-26) At the trial scene her countenance is again suffused with feeling as she silently weeps for Hugo: Those lids Now seemed with hot and livid glow To press, not shade, the orbs belov^z Which glance so heavily, and fill. As tear on tear grows gathering still. (11. 175, 179-182) Given this preparation, the reader is not surprised at the madness x^hich seizes Parisina after she hears Hugo condemned to death. To her final shriek over Hugo's severed head, Parisina's role is consistent with her characterization as a highly sensitive and excitable person who is ruled by passionate emotions. In a similar fashion, both Hugo and Azo are given particularly dominant traits. Hugo's singular feature is a sort of stoic pride visible in his speech before the crowd and his calm fac ing of death. Azo's personality is distinguished by a hasty temper and a merciless morality, both of which attributes he lives to regret. Al though this technique of characterization is not unusual among narrative writers, Byron's use of it in Parisina is admirably subtle. By using this simplified method, the poet indicates a maturing of his style away from the melodramatic character presentations of the other tales. 126 The setting used in Parisina is also in accord with the tale's generally uncomplicated structure. Byron makes no attempt to place the tale within a certain locale. Even the general station of the characters is only vaguely hinted in passing remarks about "... Este's lineal throne" (1. 262) and the knights and nobles connected with a princely court. Lines 1-14 represent the only significant passage of landscape description, and they are extremely conventional when compared to Byron's more exotic outbursts. Like his approach to characterization, the poet's setting in Parisina functions primarily as an aid to the plot. It adds the flesh, so to speak, upon the skel etal outline of events. Setting employed for this purpose is especially noticeable in lines 386-501. Byron tries to establish a melancholy atmosphere leading up to Hugo's execution. The images are effective, as illustrated in the following lines: The Convent bells are ringing. But mournfully and slovz; In the grey square turret swinging. With a deep sound, to and fro. (11. 386-389) After the execution, the poet uses a description of the watching tovznspeople (11. 477-484) to convey a contrasting mood of horror. Even the platform of execution attains a vividness as Hugo gazes: Upon the axe v^zhich near him shone With a clear and ghastly glitter— (11. 424-425) While the poet does not refrain from painting colorful and graphic pic tures, he contrives to knit them tightly into the tale's overall fabric. Most of the descriptive passages in Parisina are concentrated, there fore, upon furthering the effectiveness of the plot action or the 127 characterization. The setting here, unlike that in the earlier tales, has no particular charm or beauty of its own. Byron's verse style in Parisina varies little from the ballad like pattern of octosyllabic couplet lines. The meter is rarely interrupted. Lines 15-28 contain some anapestic feet and a line or two with five accents. Lines 386-406, previously cited for their evocative setting, are also irregular. The first nine lines are written in iambic trimeter while the last twelve fall predominantly into an anapestic tetrameter formation. As both of these passages develop a mood of tenseness and anticipation, it is likely that Byron purposely contributed to their effect with the indefinite rhythms. The couplet rime is employed throughout, although the poet frequently inserts a four-line, alternating rime pattern at the beginning of the stanzas. The vocabulary and sentence structure are clear and precise, but they lack an inspiring originality. In general, however, the basic simplicity of Byron's technique is helpful with regard to Parisina's complete impression. For a narrative of this brevity and directness, a conservative style is appropriate. It allows the story to flovz smoothly without calling attention to itself. Oliver Elton says of Parisina: "It resembles, indeed, the 12 last act of an unwritten play." Considering all the factors of Byron's technique, Elton's comment summarizes the romance's form quite accurately. Although it is still within the realm of narrative "'•^Elton, A Survey of English Literature: 1780-1830, II, p. 151. 128 storytelling, Parisina, more than any of Byron's Oriental romances, comes closest to being purely dramatic in its organization and manner of presenting material. The tale is told from the omniscient view point by a narrator who skillfully arranges to waver between a sympathetic and condemnatory approach to the subject. The plot of the poem has unity and balance; the action progresses swiftly and logically according to a chronological time line. The work's pace is sufficiently varied because of Byron's alternating sections of sum marized narration and dramatic confrontation. Characterization, setting, and style are functional and unelaborate; their simplicity results in fevzer distractions to the basic story and adds to the work's dramatic forcefulness. When all of these considerations are added to gether, it becomes obvious that Parisina rates a special classification, With the possible exception of The Corsair, Parisina is the only one of Byron's romances vzhich does not contain a major technical flaw. It is also the only romance in which Byron manages to orient his whole technique around the narrative story thread of one basic situa tion. As a result, Parisina is both dramatically exciting and tech nically enjoyable. It is a narrative where technique and subject matter are so intimately joined that the reader becomes engrossed in the latter and ignores the former. With these qualifications, there is no doubt that Parisina rates as the most successful of Byron's ventures in narrative. ^^1 CHAPTER V CONCLUSION A summary statement regarding the narrative technique of Byron's Oriental romances is difficult to achieve. The tales are commonly viewed as a group, but each has its different merits and failings. No one tale can be considered as a typical representative for all six of the romances. Likewise, comments about the general characteristics of the romances frequently apply to only one or two of the narratives. The romances, hovzever, do share some similarities, although features common to all six are practically nonexistent. Several of the tales are individually distinguished by Byron's unique development of a specific technical component. Others are noted for an unusually balanced proportion of all aspects of technique. Some are exciting, and some are dull. All are different. For these reasons, this paper analyzes the romances separately according to basic stand ards of good narrative style. A comparative approach offers an addi tional means of evaluation. The simultaneous employment of both methods of examination results in the follovzing observations. Byron's romances are experiments. They can be grouped in pairs according to the poet's particular emphasis on viewpoint, character ization, or form. The Giaour and The Siege of Corinth derive their organization and interest from their points of view. In The Giaour Byron achieved a narrative of unique suspense and mystery by his 129 ^^BB 130 innovative use of several limited points of view. The Siege of Corinth is shaped by the prejudices of its narrator into a dramatic testament to the ideals of Greek freedom. The Corsair and Lara, Byron's sequen tial tales, concentrate upon the characterization of their mysterious heroes. The Corsair accomplishes its effect by balancing all the dif ferent aspects of technique and focusing them on the hero. Lara has an uneven quality because of technical discrepancies and inconsistencies, but its logically developed method of characterization presents an intriguing protagonist. The Bride of Abydos and Parisina gain their significance from a dramatic structure. Although it is endowed with a sluggish pace. The Bride of Abydos uses a great deal of dialogue in its presentation of the subject matter. Parisina contains a tightly unified technique that propels the tale to a forceful climax. Although each of the tales has an interesting emphasis, each is not an equally successful narrative. Of all the romances. The Corsair and Parisina probably rank as having the best narrative styles. Several considerations dictate such an evaluation. Both tales have balanced techniques in which no one factor dominates. They have inconspicuous, omniscient narrators, a unified plot sequence, a varied pace, a chronological time line, con sistent characterizations, functional settings, smooth verse styles, and dramatic intensity. They do not contain distracting intrusions by the author, and they do not seem to be simply a sentimental or melo dramatic presentation of the Byronic ego. The other four romances, by comparison, are more prone to exhibit the faults for v.^hich the tales 131 are generally criticized. The Giaour, The Bride o^ Abydos, Lara, and The ^iege o^ Corinth all reveal certain unevennesses of technique although not always in the same areas. The viewpoints are subjective and inconsistent, the plots are disordered, the paces are dull or slow, the time sequences are occasionally confused, the characteriza tions arB excessively melodramatic, the settings are lavish, the verse is strained at times, and the forms are primarily episodic with a minimum of drama. In these romances it is not too difficult to see Byron's personal concerns dominating the particular slant of the narrative. Generally speaking, however, none of the romances is so awkwardly handled as to deserve the severely deprecating remarks of some critics. Although this paper vzas not designed to show a pattern to the growth of Byron's narrative art, there does seem to be a discernible direction in which the tales progress. Each tale after The Giaour and The Bride of Abydos includes an increasingly smaller amount of exotic or elaborate description. With the possible exception of Lara, the last four tales have an exciting pace and a relatively short time span. They are also organized to a greater degree around a dramatic, cause and effect arrangement of events. While these observations overlook many fine points, they nevertheless indicate that Byron's narrative technique in the Oriental romances moves quite gradually toward a more dramatic approach to the presentation of sub ject material. Parisina, of course, offers the supreme proof of this 132 theory, for the tale is both the last in the series and the most dramatic in structure. Byron critics are generally agreed that the poet's later narratives, for example, Mazeppa, also appear to be dramatic. Therefore, it seems logical to assert that the Oriental romances show the results of Byron's maturing outlook upon his art. Byron's tales will never claim any particular distinction among the larger and more profound works of his career. They are essentially minor poems even though they still provoke a quantity of comment both favorable and unfavorable. It would be a mistake to forget them altogether, for they have a charm and fascination that is not harmed by any amount of criticism. They also provide a necessary link between Byron's earlier compositions and his mature poetic offerings. Through the narrative technique of the Oriental romances, Byron's art can be observed as the poet tries different experiments to find the poetic style most suited to himself. The success of later poems proves that the experiments were vzorthwhile. lwi^^ " BIBLIOGRAPHY Bement, Douglas, and Taylor, Ross M. The Fabric of Fiction. New York; Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1943. Bond, R. Warwick. "The Art of Narrative Poetry," Essays by Divers ^^^^^ > ^^^^^ the Transactions of; _the Royal Society o^ Litera- -tHie £f th£ United Kin^^ Vol. IV. Edited by Edmund Goose. London: Oxford University Press, 1924. Booth, Wayne. The Rhetoric of Fiction. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961. Bowen, Elizabeth. Collected Impressions. New York: Alfred Knopf, 1950. 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