My Recollections of Lord Byron
imaginary character, which the writer supposes to be meant for Lady
Byron, may be deemed to merit this formidable denunciation from their
most sweet voices, I neither know nor care; but when he tells me that I
can not 'in any way justify my own behavior in that affair,' I
acquiesce, because no man can justify himself until he knows of what he
is accused; and I have never had--and, God knows, my whole desire has
ever been to obtain it--any specific charge, in a tangible shape,
submitted to me by the adversary, nor by others, unless the atrocities
of public rumor and the mysterious silence of the lady's legal advisers
may be deemed such.
"But is not the writer content with what has been already said and done?
Has not the general voice of his countrymen long ago pronounced upon the
subject sentence without trial, and condemnation without a charge? Have
I not been exiled by ostracism, except that the shells which proscribed
me were anonymous? Is the writer ignorant of the public opinion and the
public conduct upon that occasion? If he is, I am not: the public will
forget both long before I shall cease to remember either.
"The man who is exiled by a faction has the consolation of thinking that
he is a martyr; he is upheld by hope and the dignity of his cause, real
or imaginary: he who withdraws from the pressure of debt may indulge in
the thought that time and prudence will retrieve his circumstances; he
who is condemned by the law as a term to his banishment, or a dream of
his abbreviation; or, it may be, the knowledge or the belief of some
injustice of the law, or of its administration, in his own particular.
But he who is outlawed by general opinion, without the intervention of
hostile politics, illegal judgment, or embarrassed circumstances,
whether he be innocent or guilty, must undergo all the bitterness of
exile, without hope, without pride, without alleviation. This case was
mine. Upon what grounds the public founded their opinion I am not aware;
but it was general, and it was decisive. Of me or of mine they knew
little, except that I had written what is called poetry, was a nobleman,
had married, became a father, and was involved in differences with my
wife and her relatives, no one knew why, because the persons complaining
refused to state their grievances. The fashionable world was divided
into parties, mine consisting of a very small minority; the reasonable
world was naturally on the stronger side, which happened to be the
lady's, as was most proper and polite. The press was active and
scurrilous; and such was the rage of the day that the unfortunate
publication of two copies of verses rather complimentary than otherwise
to the subjects of both, was tortured into a species of crime, or
constructive petty treason. I was accused of every monstrous vice by
public rumor and private rancor; my name, which had been a knightly or a
noble one since my fathers helped to conquer the kingdom for William the
Norman, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered,
and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if false, England was
unfit for me. I withdrew: but this was not enough. In other countries,
in Switzerland, in the shadow of the Alps, and by the blue depth of the
lakes, I was pursued and breathed upon by the light. I crossed the
mountains, but it was the same; so I went a little farther, and settled
myself by the waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at bay, who betakes
him to the waters.
"If I may judge by the statements of the few friends who gathered round
me, the outcry of the period to which I allude was beyond all precedent,
all parallel, even in those cases where political motives have sharpened
slander and doubled enmity."
One regrets not being able to go on reproducing these fine pages written
by Lord Byron, but the limits we have assigned ourselves force the
sacrifice.
And now, after all that has been placed before the reader, will he not
be curious to learn whether Lord Byron truly loved Lady Byron. The
answer admits of no doubt. Could love exist between two natures so
widely dissonant? But then it will be said, why did he marry her? This
question may be answered by the simple observation that two-thirds of
the marriages in high life, and indeed in all classes, are contracted
without any love, nor are the parties, therefore, condemned to
unhappiness. Still it is as well to recall that not only it did not
enter into Lord Byron's views to marry for love and to satisfy passion,
but that he married rather for the sake of escaping from the yoke of his
passions! "If I were in love I should be jealous," said he, "and then I
could not render happy the woman I married." "Let her be happy," added
he, "and then, for my part, I shall also be so." Then again we find,
"Let them only leave me my mornings free." Lastly, he wrote in his
journal, before marrying Miss Milbank, and while in correspondence with
her, "It is very singular, but there is not a spark of love between me
and Miss Milbank." If, then, Miss Milbank married Lord Byron out of
self-love, and to prevent his marrying a young and beautiful Irish girl,
Lord Byron, on his part, married Miss Milbank from motives the most
honorable to human nature. It was her _simple modest_ air that attracted
him and caused his delusion, and the fame of her virtues quite decided
him. As to interested motives, they were at most but secondary; and his
disinterestedness was all the more meritorious, since the embarrassed
state of his affairs made him really require money, and Miss Milbank had
none at that period. She was an only daughter, it is true; but her
parents were still in the prime of life, and her uncle, Lord Wentworth,
from whom her mother was to inherit before herself, might yet live many
years. His marriage with Miss Milbank was thus not only disinterested as
regards fortune, but even _imprudently generous_; for she only brought
him a small dowry of L10,000--a mere trifle compared to the life of
luxury she was to lead, in accordance with their mutual rank.[147] And
these L10,000 were not only returned by Lord Byron on their separation,
but generously doubled.
And now let us hasten to add that although Lord Byron was not in love
with Miss Milbank, he had no dislike to her person, for she was rather
pretty and pleasing in appearance. Her reputation for moral and
intellectual qualities, standing on such a high pedestal, Lord Byron
naturally conceived that esteem might well suffice to replace
tenderness. It is certain that, if she had lent herself to it more, and
if circumstances had only been endurable, their union might have
presented the same character common to most aristocratic couples in
England, and that even Lord Byron might have been able to act from
virtue in default of feeling; but that little requisite for him was
wholly wanting.
His celebrated and touching "Farewell" might be brought up as an
objection to what we have just advanced. It might be said that the word
_sincere_ is a proof of love, and _insincere_ a proof of _falsehood_.
Lastly, that in all cases there was a want of delicacy and refinement in
thus confiding his domestic troubles to the public. Well, all that would
be ill-founded, unjust, and contrary to truth. This is the truth of the
matter. Lord Byron had just been informed that Lady Byron, having sent
off by post the letter wherein she confirmed all that her father, Sir
Ralph, had written, namely, her resolution of not returning to the
conjugal roof, had afterward caused this letter to be sought for, and on
its being restored, had given way to almost mad demonstrations of joy.
Could he see aught else in this account save a certainty of the evil
influences weighing on her, and making her act in contradiction to her
real sentiments? He pitied her then as a victim, thought of all the
virtues _said_ to crown her, the illusive belief in which he was far
then from having lost; he forgot the wrongs she had inflicted on
him--the spying she had kept up around him--the calumnies spread against
him--the use she had made of the letters subtracted from his desk. Yes,
all was forgotten by his generous heart; and, according to custom, he
even went so far as to accuse himself--to see in the victim only his
wife, the mother of his little Ada! Under this excitement he was walking
about at night in his solitary apartments, and suddenly chanced to
perceive in some corner different things that had belonged to Lady
Byron--dresses and other articles of attire. It is well known how much
the sight of these inanimate mementoes has power to call up
recollections even to ordinary imaginations. What, then, must have been
the vividness with which they acted on an imagination like Lord Byron's?
His heart softened toward her, and he recollected that one day, under
the influence of sorrows which well-nigh robbed him of consciousness, he
had answered her harshly. Thinking himself in the wrong, and full of the
anguish that all these reflections and objects excited in his breast, he
allowed his tears to flow, and, snatching a pen, wrote down that
touching effusion, which somewhat eased his suffering.
The next day one of his friends found these beautiful verses on his
desk; and, judging of Lady Byron's heart and that of the public
according to his own, he imprudently gave them to the world. Thus we
can no more doubt Lord Byron's sincerity in writing them than we can
accuse him of publishing them. But what may cause astonishment is that
they could possibly have been ill-interpreted, as they were; and, above
all, that this touching "Farewell"--which made Madame de Stael say she
would gladly have been unhappy, like Lady Byron, to draw it forth--that
it should not have had power to rescue her heart from its apathy, and
bring her to the feet of her husband, or at least into his arms. Let us
add, in conclusion, that the most atrocious part of this affair, and
doubtless the most wounding for him, was precisely Lady Byron's conduct;
and in this conduct the worst was _her cruel silence_!
She has been called, after his words, the moral Clytemnestra[148] of her
husband. Such a surname is severe; but the repugnance we feel to
condemning a woman can not prevent our listening to the voice of
justice, which tells us that the comparison is still in favor of the
guilty one of antiquity. For she, driven to crime by fierce passion
overpowering reason, at least only deprived her husband of physical
life, and in committing the deed exposed herself to all its
consequences; while Lady Byron left her husband at the very moment that
she saw him struggling amid a thousand shoals, in the stormy sea of
embarrassments created by his marriage, and precisely when he more than
ever required a friendly, tender, and indulgent hand to save him from
the tempests of life. Besides, she shut herself up in silence a thousand
times more cruel than Clytemnestra's poniard, that only killed the body;
whereas Lady Byron's silence was destined to kill the soul, and such a
soul! leaving the door open to calumny, and making it to be supposed
that her silence was magnanimity destined to cover over frightful
wrongs, perhaps even depravity. In vain did he, feeling his conscience
at ease, implore some inquiry and examination. She refused, and the only
favor she granted was to send him, one fine day, two persons to see
whether he were not mad. Happily Lord Byron only discovered at a later
period the purport of this strange visit.
In vain did Lord Byron's friend, the companion of all his travels, throw
himself at Lady Byron's feet, imploring her to give over this fatal
silence. The only reply she deigned was, that she had thought him mad!
And why, then, had she believed him mad? Because she, a methodical
inflexible woman, with that unbendingness which a profound moralist