Chapter XX: Part II: What the Poems Reveal (3)

'_If any accident occurs to me_, you may do then as you please; but,
with the exception of two copies of each for _yourself_ only, I expect
and request that the advertisements be withdrawn, and the remaining
copies of _all_ destroyed; and any expense so incurred I will be glad
to defray. For all this it may be well to assign some reason. I have
none to give except my own caprice, and I do not consider the
circumstance of consequence enough to require explanation. Of course,
I need hardly assure you that they never shall be published with my
consent, directly or indirectly, by any other person whatsoever, and
that I am perfectly satisfied, and have every reason so to be, with
your conduct in all transactions between us, as publisher and author.
It will give me great pleasure to preserve your acquaintance, and to
consider you as my friend.'

Two days later Byron seems to have conquered his immediate apprehensions, and, in reply to an appeal from Murray, writes:

'If your present note is serious, and it really would be inconvenient,
there is an end of the matter; tear my draft, and go on as usual: in
that case we will recur to our former basis. That _I_ was perfectly
_serious_ in wishing to suppress all future publication is true; but
certainly not to interfere with the convenience of others, and more
particularly your own. _Some day I will tell you the reason of this
apparently strange resolution._'

It had evidently dawned on Byron's mind that a sudden suppression of his poems would have aroused public curiosity, and that a motive for his action would either have been found or invented. This would have been fatal to all concerned. If trouble were to come, it would be wiser not to meet it halfway. Happily, the birth of Medora passed unnoticed.

As time wore on, Byron's hopes that Mary would relent grew apace. But he was doomed to disappointment. Mary Chaworth had the courage and the wisdom to crush a love so disastrous to both. Byron in his blindness reproached her:

'Thou art not false, but thou art fickle.'

He tells her that he would despise her if she were false; but he knows that her love is sincere:

'When _she_ can change who loved so truly!'

'Ah! sure such grief is _Fancy's_ scheming,
And all the Change can be but dreaming!'

He could not believe that her resolve was serious. Time taught him better. Love died, and friendship took its place. The same love that tempted her to sin was that true love that works out its redemption.

Between April 15 and 21, 1816, before signing the deed of separation, Byron went into the country to take leave of Mary Chaworth. It was their last meeting, and the parting must have been a sad one. The hopes that Mary had formed for his peace and happiness in marriage had suddenly been dashed to the ground. And now he was about to leave England under a cloud, which threatened for a time to overwhelm them both. A terrible anxiety as to the issue of investigations, which were being made into his conduct previous to and during his marriage, oppressed her with the gravest apprehension. Everything seemed to depend upon the silence both of Byron and Augusta. Under this awful strain the mind of Mary Chaworth was flickering towards collapse. By the following verses, which must have been written soon after their final meeting, we find Byron,

'Seared in heart--and lone--and blighted,'

reproaching, with a lover's injustice, the woman he adored, for that act of renunciation which, under happier auspices, might have proved his own salvation:

I.

'When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

II.

'The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow--
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

III.

'They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me--
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

IV.

'In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
_That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive_.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.'

In the first draft Byron had written, after the second verse, the following words:

'_Our secret lies hidden,
But never forgot._'

In 'Fare Thee Well,' written on March 17, 1816, there are only four lines which have any bearing on the point under consideration.

Byron tells his wife that if she really knew the truth, if every inmost thought of his breast were bared before her, she would _not_ have forsaken him.

That is true. Lady Byron might, in time, have forgiven everything if the doctors had been able to declare that her husband was not wholly accountable for his actions. But when they pronounced him to be of sound mind, and, as will be seen presently, she subsequently convinced herself that he had committed, and might even then be committing adultery with his sister under her own roof, she resolved never again to place herself in his power. If, in the early stages of disagreement, without betraying Mary Chaworth, it could have been avowed that Mrs. Leigh _was not the mother of Medora_, Lady Byron might not have seen in her husband's strange conduct towards herself 'signs of a deep remorse.' She would certainly have been far more patient under suffering, and the separation might have been avoided. But this avowal was impracticable. Augusta had committed herself too far for that, and the idle gossip of her servants _subsequently_ convinced Lady Byron that Byron was the father of Augusta's child. It is clear that neither Augusta nor Byron made any attempts to remove those suspicions; in fact, they acted in a manner most certain to confirm them. Whether the secret, which they had pledged themselves to keep, could long have been withheld from Lady Byron, if matters had been patched up, is doubtful. Meanwhile, as everything depended on _premat nox alta_, they dared not risk even a partial avowal of the truth.

The separation was inevitable, and in this case it was eternal. It is hard to believe that there had ever been any real love on either side. Under these circumstances we feel sure that any attempts at reconciliation would have ended disastrously for both. Byron's love for Mary Chaworth was strong as death. Many waters could not have quenched it, 'neither could the floods drown it.'

The last verses written by Byron before he left England for ever were addressed to his sister. The deed of separation had been signed, and Augusta Leigh, who had stood at his side in those dark hours when all the world had forsaken him, was about to leave London.

'When all around grew drear and dark,
And Reason half withheld her ray--
And Hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way;
When Fortune changed, and Love fled far,
And Hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,
Thou wert the solitary star
Which rose, and set not to the last.
And when the cloud upon us came
_Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray_--
Then purer spread its gentle flame
And dashed the darkness all away.
Still may thy Spirit dwell on mine,
_And teach it what to brave or brook_--
There's more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world's defied rebuke.

* * * * *

_Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken_--thine will never break;
Thy heart can feel.'

These ingenuous words show that Byron's affection for his sister, and his gratitude for her loyalty, were both deep and sincere. If, as Lord Lovelace asserts, Byron had been her lover, we know enough of his character to be certain that he would never have written these lines. He was not a hypocrite--far from it--and it was foreign to his naturally combative nature to attempt to conciliate public opinion. These lines were written _currente calamo_, and are only interesting to us on account of the light they cast upon the situation at the time of the separation. Evidently Byron had heard a rumour of the baseless charge that was afterwards openly made. He reminds Augusta that a cloud threatened to darken her existence, but the bright rays of her purity dispelled it. He hopes that even in absence she will guide and direct him as in the past; and he compliments her by saying that one word from her had more influence over him than the whole world's censure. Although his love-episode with Mary was over, yet so long as Augusta loves him he will still have something to live for, as she alone can feel for him and understand his position.

In speaking of his sister, in the third canto of 'Childe Harold,' he says:

'For there was soft Remembrance, _and sweet Trust_
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt.'

'_And he had learned to love_--I know not why,
For this in such as him seems strange of mood--
_The helpless looks of blooming Infancy_,
Even in its earliest nurture; what subdued,
To change like this, a mind so far imbued
With scorn of man, it little boots to know;
But thus it was; and though in solitude
Small power the nipped affections have to grow,
In him this glowed when all beside had ceased to glow.'

If these words bear any significance, Byron must mean that, since the preceding canto of 'Childe Harold' was written, he had formed (learned to love) a strong attachment to some child, and, in spite of absence, this affection still glowed. That child may possibly have been Ada, as the opening lines seem to suggest. But this is not quite certain. According to Lord Lovelace, Byron never saw his child after January 3, 1816, when the babe was only twenty-four days old. Byron himself states that it was not granted to him 'to watch her dawn of little joys, or hold her lightly on his knee, and print on her soft cheek a parent's kiss.' All this, he tells us, 'was in his nature,' but was denied to him. His sole consolation was the hope that some day Ada would learn to love him. On the other hand, the child mentioned in 'Childe Harold' had won his love by means which 'it little boots to know.' If Byron had alluded to his daughter Ada, there need have been no ambiguity. Possibly the child here indicated may have been little Medora, then three years old, with whom he had often played, and who was then living with that sister of 'Soft Remembrance and sweet Trust.'

If that conjecture be correct, this is the only allusion to Medora in Byron's poetry. But she is indicated in prose. In reference to the death of one of Moore's children, Byron wrote (February 2, 1818):

'I know how to feel with you, because I am quite wrapped up in my own
children. Besides my little legitimate, I have made unto myself an
illegitimate since, _to say nothing of one before_; and I look forward
to one of them as the pillar of my old age, supposing that I ever
reach, as I hope I never shall, that desolating period.'

In the _one before_ Moore will have recognized Medora. In spite of the 'scarlet cloak and double figure,' Moore had no belief in the story that Byron became a father while at Harrow School!

'The Dream,' which was written in July, 1816, is perhaps more widely known than any of Byron's poems. Its theme is the remembrance of a hopeless passion, which neither Time nor Reason could extinguish. Similar notes of lamentation permeate most of his poems, but in 'The Dream' Byron, for the first time, takes the world into his confidence, and tells his tale of woe with such distinctness that we realize its truth, its passion, and its calamity. The publication of that poem was an indiscretion which must have been very disconcerting to his sister. Fortunately, it had no disastrous consequences. It apparently awakened no suspicions, and its sole effect was to incense Mary Chaworth's husband, who, in order to stop all prattle, caused the 'peculiar diadem of trees' to be cut down. In Byron's early poems we see how deeply Mary Chaworth's marriage affected him; but this was known only to a small circle of Southwell friends. In 'The Dream' we realize that she was in fact a portion of his life, and that his own marriage had not in the least affected his feelings towards her. He had tried hard to forget her, but in vain; she was his destiny. Whether Byron, when he wrote this poem, had any idea of publishing it to the world is not known. It may possibly have been written to relieve his overburdened mind, and would not have seen the light but for Lady Byron's treatment of Mrs. Leigh on the memorable occasion when she extracted, under promise of secrecy, the so-called 'Confession,' to which we shall allude presently. In any case, Byron became aware of what had happened in September, 1816. In some lines addressed to his wife, he tells her that she bought others' grief at any price, adding:

'The means were worthy, and the end is won;
I would not do by thee as _thou_ hast done.'

Possibly, Byron may have thought that the publication of this poem would act as a barb, and would wound Lady Byron's stubborn pride. Its appearance in the circumstances was certainly _contra bonos mores_, but we must remember that 'men in rage often strike those who wish them best.' Whatever may have been Byron's intention, 'The Dream' affords a proof that Mary Chaworth was never long absent from his thoughts. At this time, when he felt a deep remorse for his conduct towards Mary Chaworth, he asks himself:

'What is this Death? a quiet of the heart?
The whole of that of which we are a part?
For Life is but a vision--what I see
Of all which lives alone is Life to me,
And being so--the absent are the dead
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread
A dreary shroud around us, and invest
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest.
The absent are the dead--for they are cold,
And ne'er can be what once we did behold;
And they are changed, and cheerless,--or if yet
_The unforgotten do not all forget,
Since thus divided_--equal must it be
_If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea_;
_It may be both_--but one day end it must
In the dark union of insensate dust.'

It was at this time also that Byron wrote his 'Stanzas to Augusta,' which show his complete confidence in her loyalty:

'Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though tempted, thou never couldst shake;
_Though trusted, thou didst not betray me_,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,
_Nor, mute, that the world might belie_.'

Byron's remorse also found expression in 'Manfred,' where contrition is but slightly veiled by words of mysterious import, breathed in an atmosphere of mountains, magic, and ghost-lore. People in society, whose ears had been poisoned by insinuations against Mrs. Leigh, and who knew nothing of Byron's intercourse with Mary Chaworth, came to the conclusion that 'Manfred' revealed a criminal attachment between Byron and his sister. Byron was aware of this, and, conscious of his innocence, held his head in proud defiance, and laughed his enemies to scorn. He did not deign to defend himself; and the public--forgetful of the maxim that where there is a sense of guilt there is a jealousy of drawing attention to it--believed the worst. When a critique of 'Manfred,' giving an account of the supposed origin of the story, was sent to Byron, he wrote to Murray:

'The conjecturer is out, and knows nothing of the matter. I had a better origin than he can devise or divine for the soul of him.'

That was the simple truth. The cruel allegation against Mrs. Leigh seemed to be beneath contempt. As Sir Egerton Brydges pointed out at the time, Byron, being of a strong temperament, did not reply to the injuries heaped upon him by whining complaints and cowardly protestations of innocence; he became desperate, and broke out into indignation, sarcasm, and exposure of his opponents, in a manner so severe as to seem inexcusably cruel to those who did not realize the provocation. It was 'war to the knife,' and Byron had the best of it.

We propose to examine 'Manfred' closely, to see whether Astarte in any degree resembles the description which Lord Lovelace has given of Augusta Leigh.

Manfred tells us that his slumbers are 'a continuance of enduring thought,' since that 'all-nameless hour' when he committed the crime for which he suffers. He asks 'Forgetfulness of that which is within him--a crime which he cannot utter.' When told by the Seven Spirits that he cannot have self-oblivion, Manfred asks if Death would give it to him; and receives the sad reply that, being immortal, the spirit after death cannot forget the past.

Eventually the Seventh Spirit--typifying, possibly, a Magdalen--appears before Manfred, in the shape of a beautiful woman.

'MANFRED. Oh God! if it be thus, and _thou_
Art not a madness and a mockery,
I yet might be most happy.'

When the figure vanishes, Manfred falls senseless. In the second act, Manfred, in reply to the chamois-hunter, who offers him a cup of wine, says:

'Away, away! there's blood upon the brim!
Will it then never--never sink in the earth?
'Tis blood--my blood! the pure warm stream
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours
When we were in our youth, and had one heart,
And loved each other as we should not love,
And _this_ was shed: but still it rises up.
Colouring the clouds that shut me out from Heaven.'

One may well wonder what all this has to do with Augusta. The blood that ran in Byron's veins also ran in the veins of Mary Chaworth, and that blood, shed by Byron's kinsman, had caused a feud, which was not broken until Byron came upon the scene, and fell hopelessly in love with 'the last of a time-honoured race.' Byron from his boyhood always believed that there was a blood-curse upon him.

When, two years later, he wrote 'The Duel' (December, 1818), he again alludes to the subject:

'I loved thee--I will not say _how_,
Since things like these are best forgot:
Perhaps thou mayst imagine now
Who loved thee and who loved thee not.
And thou wert wedded to another,
And I at last another wedded:
I am a father, thou a mother,
To strangers vowed, with strangers bedded.

* * * * *

'Many a bar, and many a feud,
Though never told, well understood,
Rolled like a river wide between--
_And then there was the curse of blood_,
Which even my Heart's can not remove.

* * * * *

'I've seen the sword that slew him; he,
The slain, stood in a like degree
To thee, as he, the Slayer stood
(Oh, had it been but other blood!)
In Kin and Chieftainship to me.
Thus came the Heritage to thee.'

Clearly, then, the Spirit, which appeared to Manfred in the form of a beautiful female figure, was Mary Chaworth; the crime for which he suffered was his conduct towards her; and the blood, which his fancy beheld on the cup's brim, was the blood of William Chaworth, which his predecessor, Lord Byron, had shed. When asked by the chamois-hunter whether he had wreaked revenge upon his enemies, Manfred replies:

'No, no, no!
My injuries came down on those who loved me--
On those whom I best loved: I never quelled
An enemy, save in my just defence--
But my embrace was fatal.'

In speaking of the 'core of his heart's grief,' Manfred says:

'Yet there was One--
She was like me in lineaments--her eyes--
Her hair--her features--all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;
But softened all, and tempered into beauty:
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,[52]
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the Universe: nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,
Pity, and smiles, and tears--which I had not;
And tenderness--but that I had for her;
Humility--and that I never had.
Her faults were mine--her virtues were her own--
I loved her, and destroyed her!
Not with my hand, but heart, _which broke her heart_;
_It gazed on mine, and withered_.'

In order to appreciate the absurdity of connecting this description with Augusta, we will quote her noble accuser, Lord Lovelace:

'The character of Augusta is seen in her letters and actions. She was
a woman of that great family which is vague about facts, unconscious
of duties, impulsive in conduct. The course of her life could not be
otherwise explained, by those who had looked into it with close
intimacy, than by a kind of moral idiotcy from birth. She was of a
sanguine and buoyant disposition, childishly fond and playful, ready
to laugh at anything, loving to talk nonsense.'

In fact,

'_She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the Universe._'

Lord Lovelace further tells us that Augusta Leigh 'had a refined species of comic talent'; that she was 'strangely insensible to the nature and magnitude of the offence in question [incest] even as an imputation;' and that 'there was apparently an absence of all deep feeling in her mind, of everything on which a strong impression could be made.' We are also told that 'Byron, after his marriage, generally spoke of Augusta as "a fool," with equal contempt of her understanding and principles.'

In short, Byron's description of the woman, whom he had 'destroyed,' resembles Augusta Leigh about as much as a mountain resembles a haystack. How closely Manfred's description resembles Mary Chaworth will be seen presently. Augusta Leigh had told Byron that, in consequence of his conduct, Mary Chaworth was out of her mind.

Manfred says that if he had never lived, that which he loved had still been living:

'... Had I never loved,
That which I love would still be beautiful,
Happy, and giving happiness. What is she?
What is she now? _A sufferer for my sins_--
_A thing I dare not think upon_--or nothing.'

When Nemesis asks Manfred whom he would 'uncharnel,' he replies:

'One without a tomb--
Call up Astarte.'

The name, of course, suggests a star. As we have seen, Byron often employed that metaphor in allusion to Mary Chaworth.

When the phantom of Astarte rises, Manfred exclaims:

'Can this be death? there's bloom upon her cheek;
But now I see it is no living hue,
But a strange hectic.'

He is afraid to look upon her; he cannot speak to her, and implores Nemesis to intercede:

'Bid her speak--
Forgive me, or condemn me.'

Nemesis tells him that she has no authority over Astarte:

'She is not of our order, but belongs
To the other powers.'[53]

The fine appeal of Manfred cannot have been addressed by Byron to his sister:

'Hear me, hear me--
Astarte! my belovéd! speak to me:
I have so much endured--so much endure--
Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee more
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me
Too much, as I loved thee: we were not made
To torture thus each other--though it were
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved.
Say that thou loath'st me not--that I do bear
This punishment for both--that thou wilt be
One of the blesséd--and that I shall die.

* * * * *

'I cannot rest.
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek:
_I feel but what thou art_, and what I am;
And I would hear yet once before I perish
The voice which was my music[54]--speak to me!

* * * * *

Speak to me! I have wandered o'er the earth,
And never found thy likeness.'

When Manfred implores Astarte to forgive him, she is silent. It is not a matter for forgiveness. He entreats her to speak to him, so that he may once more hear that sweet voice, even though it be for the last time. The silence is broken by the word 'Farewell!' Manfred, whose doom is sealed, cries in agony:

'What I have done is done; I bear within
A torture which could nothing gain (from others).
The Mind, which is immortal, makes itself
Requital for its good or evil thoughts,--
Is its own origin of ill and end--
And its own place and time:
I was my own destroyer, and will be
My own hereafter...
The hand of Death is on me...
All things swim around me, and the Earth
Heaves, as it were, beneath me. Fare thee well!'

So far as we know, there is nothing in the whole length of this poem to suggest anything abnormal; and it is hard to understand what resemblance Byron's contemporaries could have discovered between the Astarte of 'Manfred' and Augusta Leigh! Enough has been quoted to show that Byron was not thinking of his sister when he wrote 'Manfred,' but of her whose life he had blasted, and whose 'sacred name' he trembled to reveal.

In April, 1817, Byron was informed by Mrs. Leigh that Mary Chaworth and her husband had made up their differences. The 'Lament of Tasso' was written in that month, and Byron's thoughts were occupied, as usual, with the theme of all his misery.

'That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind,
Hath been the sin that shuts me from mankind;
But let them go, or torture as they will,
My heart can multiply thine image still;
Successful Love may sate itself away;
The wretched are the faithful; 'tis their fate
To have all feeling, save the one, decay,
And every passion into one dilate,
As rapid rivers into Ocean pour;
But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore.'

In 'Mazeppa' Byron tells how he met 'Theresa' in that month of June, and how 'through his brain the thought did pass that there was something in her air which would not doom him to despair.' This incident is again referred to in 'Don Juan.' The Count Palatine is, probably, intended as a sketch of Mary's husband.

'The Duel,' which was written in December, 1818, is addressed to Mary Chaworth:

'I loved thee--I will not say _how_,
Since things like these are best forgot.'

Byron alludes to 'the curse of blood,' with, 'many a bar and many a feud,' which 'rolled like a wide river between them':

'Alas! how many things have been
Since we were friends; for I alone
Feel more for thee than can be shown.'

In the so-called 'Stanzas to the Po,' we find the same prolonged note of suffering. Writing to Murray (May 8, 1820), Byron says:

'I sent a copy of verses to Mr. Kinnaird (they were written last year
on crossing the Po) which must _not_ be published. Pray recollect
this, as they were mere verses of society, and written from private
feelings and passions.'

In view of the secrecy which Byron consistently observed, respecting his later intimacy with Mary Chaworth, the publication of these verses would have been highly indiscreet. They were written in June, 1819, after Mary had for some time been reconciled to her husband. She was then living with him at Colwick Hall, near Nottingham.

Ostensibly these stanzas form an apostrophe to the River Po, and the 'lady of the land' was, of course, the Guiccioli. Medwin, to whom Byron gave the poem, believed that the river apostrophized by the poet was the River Po, whose 'deep and ample stream' was 'the mirror of his heart.' But it seems perfectly clear that, if this poem referred only to the Countess Guiccioli, there could have been no objection to its publication in England. The reading public in those days knew nothing of Byron's liaisons abroad, and his mystic allusion to foreign rivers and foreign ladies would have left the British public cold.

A scrutiny of these perplexing stanzas suggests that they were adapted, from a fragment written in early life, to meet the conditions of 1819. Evidently Mary Chaworth was once more 'the ocean to the river of his thoughts,' and the stream indicated in the opening stanza was not the Po, but the River Trent, which flows close to the ancient walls of Colwick, where 'the lady of his love' was then residing. To assist the reader, we insert the poem, having merely transposed three stanzas to make its purport clearer

I.

'River, that rollest by the ancient walls,
Where dwells the Lady of my love, when she
Walks by the brink, _and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me_:

II.

'She will look on thee--I have looked on thee,
Full of that thought: and from that moment ne'er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see
Without the inseparable sigh for her!

III.

'But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,
As various the climates of our birth.

IV.

'What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts _I now betray to thee_,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!

V.

'What do I say--a mirror of my heart?
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong?
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
And such as thou art were my passions long.

VI.

'Time may have somewhat tamed them--not for ever;
Thou overflowest thy banks, and not for aye
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away:

VII.

'But left long wrecks behind, and now again,
Borne on our old unchanged career, we move:
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,
And I,--to loving _one_ I should not love.

VIII.

'My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,
A slave again to Love--at least of thee.

IX.

'The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls,[55] and murmur at her feet;
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe
The twilight air, unharmed by summer's heat.

X.

'Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream.
Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow!

XI.

'The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I near thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.[56]

XII.

'A stranger loves the Lady of the land,
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood
Is all meridian, as if never fanned
By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood.

XIII.

''Tis vain to struggle--let me perish young--
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.'

In the first stanza, Byron says that when his lady-love walks by the river's brink 'she may perchance recall a faint and fleeting memory' of him. Those words, which might have been applicable to Mary Chaworth, whom he had not seen for at least three years, could not possibly refer to a woman from whom he had been parted but two short months, and with whom he had since been in constant correspondence. Only a few days before these verses were written, Countess Guiccioli had told him by letter that she had prepared all her relatives and friends to expect him at Ravenna. There must surely have been something more than 'a faint and fleeting' memory of Byron in the mind of the ardent Guiccioli. In the second stanza, Byron, in allusion to the river he had in his thoughts, says:

'She will look on thee--_I have looked on thee_, full of that thought:
_and from that moment_ ne'er thy waters could I dream of, _name, or
see_, without the inseparable sigh for her.'

Now, while there was nothing whatever to connect the River Po with tender recollections, there was Byron's association in childhood with the River Trent, a memory inseparable from his boyish love for Mary Chaworth.

'But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir,
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont;
And having learnt to swim in that sweet river
Had often turned the art to some account.'

In the fourth stanza we perceive that the poet, while thinking of the Trent, 'betrays his thoughts' to the Po, a river as wild and as swift as his native stream.

The ninth stanza has puzzled commentators exceedingly. It has been pointed out that the River Po does not sweep beneath the walls of Ravenna. That is, of course, indisputable. But Byron, in all probability, did not then know the exact course of that river, and blindly followed Dante's geographical description, and almost used his very words:

'Siede la terra, _dove nata fui,
Su la marina dove il Po discende_,
Per aver pace co' seguaci sui.'

It is, of course, well known that the Po branches off into two streams to the north-west of Ferrara, and flows both northward and southward of that city. The southern portion--the Po di Primaro--is fed by four affluents--the Rheno, the Savena, the Santerno, and the Lamone--and flows into the Adriatic south of Comachio, about midway between that place and Ravenna. It was obviously to the _Po di Primaro_ that Dante referred when he wrote _seguaci sui_.

Unless Francesca was born close to the mouth of the Po, which is not impossible, Byron erred in good company. In any case, we may fairly plead poetic licence. That Byron crossed the Po di Primaro as well as the main river admits of no doubt.

In the eleventh stanza Byron is wondering what will be the result of his journey? Will the Guiccioli return to him? Will all be well with the lovers, or will he return to Venice alone? In his fancy they are both wandering on the banks of that river. He is near its source, where the Po di Primaro branches off near Pontelagascuro, while she was on the shore of the Adriatic.

The twelfth stanza would perhaps have been clearer if the first and second lines had been,

'A stranger, born far beyond the mountains,
Loves the Lady of the land,'

which was Byron's meaning. The poet excuses himself for his fickleness on the plea that 'his blood is all meridian'--in short, that he cannot help loving someone. But we plainly see that his love for Mary Chaworth was still paramount. 'In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot'--tortures of which we had a glimpse in 'Manfred'--he was still her slave. Finally, Byron tells us that it was useless to struggle against the misery his heart endured, and that all his hopes were centred on an early death.

The episode of Francesca and Paolo had made a deep impression on Byron. He likened it to his unfortunate adventure with Mary Chaworth in June and July, 1813. In 'The Corsair'--written after their intimacy had been broken off--Byron prefixes to each canto a motto from 'The Inferno' which seemed to be appropriate to his own case. In the first canto we find:

'Nessun maggior dolore,
Che ricordarsi del tempo felice
Nella miseria.'

In the second canto:

'Conoscesti i dubbiosi desire?'

In the third canto:

'Come vedi--ancor non m' abbandona.'

That Byron had Francesca in his mind when he wrote the stanzas to the Po seems likely; and in the letter which he wrote to Mary from Venice, in the previous month, he compares their misfortunes with those of Paolo and Francesca in plain words.[57]

'Don Juan' was begun in the autumn of 1818. That poem, Byron tells us, was inspired almost entirely by his own personal experience. Perhaps he drew a portrait of Mary Chaworth when he described Julia:

'And she
Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.'

When they parted in 1809, that was exactly Mary's age.

'Her eye was large and dark, suppressing half its fire until she
spoke. Her glossy hair was clustered over a brow bright with
intelligence. Her cheek was purple with the beam of youth, mounting at
times to a transparent glow; and she had an uncommon grace of manner.
She was tall of stature. Her husband was a good-looking man, neither
much loved nor disliked. He was of a jealous nature, though he did not
show it. They lived together, as most people do, suffering each
other's foibles.'

On a summer's eve in the month of June, Juan and Julia met:

'How beautiful she looked! her conscious heart
Glowed in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong.'

For her husband she had honour, virtue, truth, and love. The sun had set, and the yellow moon arose high in the heavens:

'There is a dangerous silence in that hour,
A stillness which leaves room for the full soul.'

Several weeks had passed away:

'Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds,--
Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known.'

Then came the parting note:

'They tell me 'tis decided you depart:
'Tis wise--'tis well, but not the less a pain;
I have no further claim on your young heart,
Mine is the victim, and would be again:
To love too much has been the only art
I used.'

Julia tells Juan that she loved him, and still loves him tenderly:

'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost
State, station, Heaven, mankind's, my own esteem,
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost,
So dear is still the memory of that dream.'

'All is o'er
For me on earth, except some years to hide
My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core.'

The seal to this letter was a sunflower--_Elle vous suit partout_. It may be mentioned here that Byron had a seal bearing this motto.

When Juan realized that the parting was final, he exclaims:

'No more--no more--oh! never more, my heart,
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!
Once all in all, but now a thing apart,
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:
The illusion's gone for ever.'

In the third canto we have a hint of Byron's feelings after his wife had left him:

'He entered in the house no more his home,
A thing to human feelings the most trying,
And harder for the heart to overcome,
Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of dying;
To find our hearthstone turned into a tomb,
And round its once warm precincts palely lying
The ashes of our hopes.'

'But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed
On that beloved daughter; she had been
The only thing which kept his heart unclosed
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen,
A lonely pure affection unopposed:
There wanted but the loss of this to wean
His feelings from all milk of human kindness,
And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness.'

In the fourth canto we are introduced to Haidée, who resembled Lambro in features and stature, even to the delicacy of their hands. We are told that owing to the violence of emotion and the agitation of her mind she broke a bloodvessel, and lay unconscious on her couch for days. Like Astarte in 'Manfred,' 'her blood was shed: I saw, but could not stanch it':

'She looked on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what:
She saw them watch her without asking why,
And recked not who around her pillow sat.

* * * * *

'Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall
In time to the harper's tune: he changed the theme
And sang of Love; the fierce name struck through all
Her recollection; on her flashed the dream
Of what she was, and is, if ye could call
To be so being; in a gushing stream
The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.'

'Short solace, vain relief! Thought came too quick,
And whirled her brain to madness.'

'She died, but not alone; she held within,
A second principle of Life, which might
Have dawned a fair and sinless child of sin;
But closed its little being without light.'

'Thus lived--thus died she; never more on her
Shall Sorrow light, or Shame.'

In the fifth canto, written in 1820, after the 'Stanzas to the Po,' we find Byron once more in a confidential mood:

'I have a passion for the name of "Mary,"
For once it was a magic sound to me;
And still it half calls up the realms of Fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be;
All feelings changed, but this was last to vary
A spell from which even yet I am not quite free.'

And there is a sigh for Mary Chaworth in the following lines:

'To pay my court, I
Gave what I had--a heart; as the world went, I
Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could never
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever.
'Twas the boy's mite, and like the widow's may
Perhaps be weighed hereafter, if not now;
But whether such things do or do not weigh,
All who have loved, or love, will still allow
Life has naught like it.'

Early in 1823, little more than a year before his death, Byron refers to 'the fair most fatal Juan ever met.' Under the name of the Lady Adeline, this most fatal fair one is introduced to the reader:

'Although she was not evil nor meant ill,
Both Destiny and Passion spread the net
And caught them.'

'Chaste she was, to Detraction's desperation,
And wedded unto one she had loved well.'

'The World could tell
Nought against either, and both seemed secure--
She in her virtue, he in his hauteur.'

Here we have a minute description of Newstead Abbey, the home of the 'noble pair,' where Juan came as a visitor:

'What I throw off is ideal--
Lowered, leavened, like a history of Freemasons,
Which bears the same relation to the real
As Captain Parry's Voyage may do to Jason's.
The grand _Arcanum's_ not for men to see all;
My music has some mystic diapasons;
And there is much which could not be appreciated
In any manner by the uninitiated.'

Adeline, we are told, came out at sixteen:

'At eighteen, though below her feet still panted
A Hecatomb of suitors with devotion,
She had consented to create again
That Adam called "The happiest of Men."'

It will be remembered that when Mary Chaworth married she was exactly eighteen. Her husband was:

'Tall, stately, formed to lead the courtly van
On birthdays. The model of a chamberlain.'

'But there was something wanting on the whole--
don't know what, and therefore cannot tell--
Which pretty women--the sweet souls!--call _Soul_.
_Certes_ it was not body; he was well
Proportioned, as a poplar or a pole,
A handsome man.'

This description would answer equally well for 'handsome Jack Musters,' who married Mary Chaworth. Adeline, we are told, took Juan in hand when she was about seven-and-twenty. That was Mary's age in 1813. But this may have been a mere coincidence.

'She had one defect,' says Byron, in speaking of Adeline: 'her heart
was vacant. Her conduct had been perfectly correct. She loved her
lord, or thought so; but _that_ love cost her an effort. She had
nothing to complain of--no bickerings, no connubial turmoil. Their
union was a model to behold--serene and noble, conjugal, but cold.
There was no great disparity in years, though much in temper. But they
never clashed. They moved, so to speak, apart.'

Now, when once Adeline had taken an interest in anything, her impressions grew, and gathered as they ran, like growing water, upon her mind. The more so, perhaps, because she was not at first too readily impressed. She did not know her own heart:

'I think not she was _then_ in love with Juan:
If so, she would have had the strength to fly
The wild sensation, unto her a new one:
She merely felt a common sympathy
In him.'

'She was, or thought she was, his friend--and this
Without the farce of Friendship, or romance
Of Platonism.'

'Few of the soft sex,' says Byron, 'are very stable in their resolves.' She had heard some parts of Juan's history; 'but women hear with more good humour such aberrations than we men of rigour':

'Adeline, in all her growing sense
Of Juan's merits and his situation,
Felt on the whole an interest intense--
Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation,
Or that he had an air of innocence,
Which is for Innocence a sad temptation--
As Women hate half-measures, on the whole,
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul.'

After a deal of thought, 'she seriously advised him to get married.'

'There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea,
That usual paragon, an only daughter,
Who seemed the cream of Equanimity,
Till skimmed--and then there was some milk and water,
With a slight shade of blue too, it might be
Beneath the surface.'

The mention of Aurora Raby, to whom Juan in the first instance proposed, and by whom he was refused, suggests an incident in his life which is well known. Aurora was very young, and knew but little of the world's ways. In her indifference she confounded him with the crowd of flatterers by whom she was surrounded. Her mind appears to have been of a serious caste; with poetic vision she 'saw worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste,' and

'those worlds
Had more of her existence; for in her
There was a depth of feeling to embrace
Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space.'

She had 'a pure and placid mien'; her colour was 'never high,'

'Though sometimes faintly flushed--and always clear
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere.'

We cannot be positive, but perhaps Byron had Aurora Raby in his mind when he wrote:

'I've seen some balls and revels in my time,
And stayed them over for some silly reason,
And then I looked (I hope it was no crime)
To see what lady best stood out the season;
And though I've seen some thousands in their prime
Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on,
I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn)
Whose bloom could after dancing dare the Dawn.'[58]

Perhaps Aurora Raby may have been drawn from his recollection of Miss Mercer Elphinstone, who afterwards married Auguste Charles Joseph, Comte de Flahaut de la Billarderie, one of Napoleon's Aides-de-Camp, then an exile in England. This young lady was particularly gracious to Byron at Lady Jersey's party, when others gave him a cold reception. We wonder how matters would have shaped themselves if she had accepted the proposal of marriage which Byron made to her in 1814! But it was not to be. That charming woman passed out of his orbit, and as he waited upon the shore, gazing at the dim outline of the coast of France, the curtain fell upon the first phase of Byron's existence. The Pilgrim of Eternity stood on the threshold of a new life:

'Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
'Twixt Night and Morn, upon the horizon's verge.
How little do we know that which we are!
How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of Time and Tide rolls on and bears afar
Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lashed from the foam of Ages.'

And after eight years of exile, in his 'Last Words on Greece,' written in those closing days at Missolonghi, with the shadow of Death upon him, his mind reverts to one whom, in 1816, he had called 'Soul of my thought':

'What are to me those honours or renown
Past or to come, a new-born people's cry?
Albeit for such I could despise a crown
Of aught save laurel, or for such could die.
I am a fool of passion, and a frown
Of thine to me is as an adder's eye--
To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down
Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high--
Such is this maddening fascination grown,
So strong thy magic or so weak am I.'

'The flowers and fruits of Love are gone; the worm,
The canker, and the grief, are mine alone!'