My Recollections of Lord Byron
all the poetic advantages accruing from the remembrance of a youthful
passion, at once innocent, pure, and unhappy; how it would furnish him
with a magic tint to enrich his palette with an inexhaustible fund of
sweet, graceful, and pathetic fancies, with delicate, lofty, and noble
sentiments, and therefore that he resolved to shut it up in his heart,
so as to preserve its freshness amid the withering atmosphere of the
world; and in order to draw thence those exquisite images that so often
shed ineffable grace and tenderness over his poems. It may, then, be
said that, by maintaining alive in his mind scenes passed at Annesley,
which recall the chaste, unhappy loves of Romeo and Juliet, and Lucy, he
thereby satisfied an intellectual want of the poet that was quite
independent of his heart as a man.
But, nevertheless, all those who can feel the heart's beatings through
the veil of poetic language will understand that Lord Byron's verses on
Mary Chaworth owe their origin to real grief.
Could it be otherwise? The experience resulting from reflection and
comparison, which made him afterward say, that the perfections of the
girl were the creation of his imagination at fifteen, because he found
her in reality quite other than angelic;[90] that she was fickle, and
had deceived him. This experience, I say, was wanting to the child.
Thus, then, Miss Chaworth was for him at that period the beau ideal of
all his young fancy could paint as best and most charming.
At the same time, this love, notwithstanding the difference of age, was
not, on his side, the giddy result of too much ardor. It was composed of
a thousand circumstances and feelings,--of practical, wise, and generous
thoughts. A far-off prospect of happiness heightened all the noble
instincts of the boy, and all the ideas of order that belonged to his
fine moral nature.
To reunite two noble families,--to efface the stain of blood and hatred
through love,--to revive again the ancient splendor of his ancestral
halls,--all these thoughts mingled with the idea of his union with Miss
Chaworth, and made his heart beat with hope. If there were excess in
such hope,--if there were illusion,--the fault lies with the relatives
of the young lady and herself, rather than with him. Generosity was on
his side alone, because he alone had a right to feel rancor.
"She jilted me," says he in prose, and in verse we read,--
"She knew she was by him beloved,--she knew,
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart
Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw
That he was wretched."
If, then, it was natural for a girl to prefer a young man of more
suitable age, handsome and fashionable, to a boy whose features were yet
undeveloped, and whom she treated as a child and a brother; was it quite
as natural to flatter him,--load him with caresses,--with those gifts
likely to foster illusion and hope,--pledges considered as love tokens?
Was it natural that in order to justify certain coquetries to her
affianced, she should make use of insulting expressions with regard to
young Byron? But, on the other hand, would it not have been very
natural for him, having heard them, to feel a little rancor against her?
Surely she was guilty if she had spoken in jest, and more guilty still
if she were in earnest.
And yet what was his conduct? In his poem called the "Dream," where he
sings this romance of his boyhood, he tells us how he quitted Annesley,
after having learned that Miss Chaworth was engaged to Mr. Musters:--
"He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp
He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
A tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,
For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd
From out the massy gate of that old hall,
And mounting on his steed he went his way;
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more."
Then he jumped upon his horse, intending to gallop over the distance
separating Annesley from Newstead. But when he arrived at the last hill
overlooking Annesley, he stopped his horse, and cast a glance of mingled
sorrow and tenderness at what he left behind,--the groves, the old
house, the lovely one inhabiting there. But then the thought that she
could never be his dispelled his reverie, and putting spurs to his horse
he set off anew, as if rapid motion could drown reflection. However,
instead of the reflections he could not succeed in drowning, _he cast
away all rancor_.
When he alludes to her in his early poems it is always with tenderness
and respect.[91] He contents himself with calling her once, _deceitful
girl_, and another time, _a false fair face_.
After an interval of some years, when the boy had become a fine young
man, before setting out for the East, he accepted the proffered
hospitality of Annesley.
He never ceased to welcome Musters at Newstead, and, lest he should
disturb the peace of Mrs. Musters, he had even concealed his agitation
on kissing his rival's child. Heretofore she had only seen the boy or
youth, now she beheld the young man whose genius and personal
attractions lent to each other light and charm.
It was about this time that the bright star of Annesley began to pale.
On her brow, formerly so gay, a veil of sadness was overspread. It
seemed as if the gardens had lost their charm for her; as if the
spreading foliage of Annesley had become dark for her. What caused this
change? On seeing again the companion of her childhood, did she contrast
her now solitary walks with those of earlier days in his beautiful park,
where beside her was the youth who would fain have kissed the ground on
which she trod? The sound of that hunting horn, which anon made her
thrill with joy, when it announced the approach of her handsome
betrothed, and awakened all the illusions of love,--had it now become to
her more discordant and painful by its contrast with the harmonious
voice and sweet smile of him whom she had just seen again so changed to
his advantage?
It was during his travels in the East that Lord Byron heard of this
mysterious melancholy. Given the circumstances, such a report would not
have displeased, even if it had not pleased, vulgar, rancorous souls.
But it produced quite a contrary effect on him. The feeling of his own
worth, doubtless, must and ought to have brought certain ideas to his
mind; but they saddened his generous nature, and he experienced a desire
to drive them away by saying, "Has she not the husband of her choice,
and lovely children to caress her?"
"What could her grief be?--she had all she loved.
* * * * * * *
What could her grief be?--she had loved him not,
* * * * * * *
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind--a spectre of the past."
Lord Byron returned from his travels, and by degrees, as he rose in the
admiration of England, the melancholy observable in Mrs. Musters
deepened.
One day she felt such a longing to see again the companion of her
childhood, that she asked for an interview. Could he not desire the
meeting? But ought he to grant it? He had had the courage to meet her
again when he thought her happy, when sorrow for the past belonged to
him alone, when she appeared neither to understand nor to share it. But
would his heart be equally strong--would it not yield on seeing her
unhappy?[92] And yet, what could he then do for her happiness? With the
same generosity that induced him always to sacrifice his pleasure to the
happiness of others, he listened to his reason, his heart, and the
prudent counsels of his sister; he refrained from an interview which
could only augment the troubles of that devastated soul, soon to become
the "_queen of a fantastic kingdom_" in reason's night. But he ever
preserved a tender remembrance of Miss Chaworth, only forgetting the
wrong she had done him.[93]
Lord Byron's conduct had been no less generous toward Mr. Musters, his
triumphant rival in the affections of Miss Chaworth. Mr. Musters, though
several years older than Lord Byron, was, nevertheless, among his early
companions. The parents of this young man resided at their country-seat,
called Colwich, a few miles distant from Newstead, and Lord Byron often
accepted their hospitality. One day the two youths were bathing in the
Trent (a river which runs through the grounds of Colwich), when Mr.
Musters perceived a ring among Lord Byron's clothes, left on the bank.
To see and take possession of it was the affair of a moment. He had
recognized it as having belonged to Miss Chaworth. Lord Byron claimed
it, but Musters would not restore the ring. High words were exchanged.
On returning to the house, Musters jumped on a horse and galloped off
to ask an explanation from Miss Chaworth, who, being forced to confess
that Lord Byron wore the ring with her consent, felt obliged to make
amends to Musters by promising to declare immediately her engagement
with him. Proud of his success, he returned home and acquainted Lord
Byron with Miss Chaworth's determination. Dinner was announced. The
family sat down, and soon perceived there was something amiss between
the two friends, whose gloomy silence spoke more eloquently than words.
Before the end of dinner Lord Byron left the table, unable to endure the
provocations of his rival.
The parents of Musters, though completely ignorant of what had caused
the quarrel, were uneasy for the consequences. After dinner bitter words
were again exchanged between the two young men, and Musters used such
coarse, insolent language that Lord Byron could ill restrain his
indignation. Anger flashing from his eyes expressed itself as warmly in
words. In this frame of mind he retired to his room, and remained long
shut up there, while Musters believed he was preparing to leave Colwich
that very night. But the magnanimous youth, on reflection, understood
that at fifteen he ought not to pretend to carry off the fair prize of
seventeen from a man nine years his senior; and that it was not generous
to grieve his hosts and hurt the reputation of the lady he loved.
Accordingly, he suppressed his sorrow, his pride, his anger. Instead of
returning to Newstead, he made his appearance as usual in the
drawing-room, and to the astonishment of his rival, excused himself for
having shown anger, and thus failed in politeness to his hosts.
Candidly, and with regret, he acknowledged that the excess of his
feelings had caused the outburst. From that day forth he gave up all
pretensions to Miss Chaworth's love, and, forgiving them both with equal
magnanimity, he even continued inviting his rival to Newstead. "But,"
said he, "now my heart would hate him if he loved her not."
On declaring to Moore, in a letter written from Pisa, that he would
still forgive fresh wrongs, Lord Byron made this avowal:--"The truth is,
I can not keep up resentment, however violent may be its explosion."
At all periods of his life, he remained the young man of 1814, saying
that he could not go to rest with anger at his heart. In Greece, a few
weeks before his glorious death, he gave another proof of it by his
conduct toward Colonel Stanhope (afterward Lord Harrington). They had
persuaded Lord Byron that the colonel was very jealous of his influence,
and of the enthusiasm manifested for him. True or not, Lord Byron could
not but believe it. The colonel arrived in Greece (sent by the London
committee), for the purpose, it was said, of uniting with Lord Byron,
and acting jointly in favor of Greek independence; but in reality, it
would have seemed as if he came only to counteract what Byron wished.
Their ideas on matters of administration and on political economy, their