Childish Loves

by Benjamin Markovits

  On New Year’s Day, which was warmish and wet and consequently more muddy and miserable even than is usual for this miserable season, we rode out together towards Annesley, as far as Miskin Hill, and waited out a shower of rain under the elm trees. I could see through the rain the house itself bright and wet under a patch of clear sky. But Mary is gone, as far as Colwick Hall, which is not very far, though it might as well be the moon.

  I said to Mr Becher, ‘I am told she is not very happy. My mother has it from a cousin whose housekeeper knows Mrs Thomason, who has gone with Mary to Colwick Hall. There is no actual cruelty, she says, but a general indifference.’

  ‘Who is not happy?’

  ‘My cousin Mary – Mary Chaworth. For a summer at least I was very much in love with her. But she married John Musters, who was reckoned a great catch. He is perhaps five or six years my senior. I was rather afraid of him.’

  And then, says he, after a decent silence: ‘Do you think she will marry me?’

  ‘Who will? Have you asked her?’

  ‘I have. She wanted to consider the question, for the space of a night and a morning; and in the morning she told me, no. She said she could not.’

  ‘When did you ask her?’

  ‘At tea at Mrs Pigot’s, on the day after our play. Mrs Pigot very kindly let us alone. John was out and Elizabeth sat quietly with her hands on her lap until I was finished.’

  ‘Did she give you a reason?’

  He shook his head; his beard was wet and dripped. There was a fine web of drops across his face, which he brushed away with his hand. ‘Do you suppose,’ he said, ‘it is because she is in love with you?’

  ‘She is not in love with me. I do not think she is. Elizabeth is good and kind and wise but not very loving. She has complained to me herself that her understanding is rather better developed than her affections. She says she has no ear for feeling.’

  ‘Then she might marry me without feeling.’

  ‘Would you like her to?’

  ‘Very much. If she has no feelings, she must do without them.’

  But the rain had stopped and we rode back to Southwell and separated by the Green. Kitty berated me for appearing in the hall in muddy boots; but I could not get them off without her, which forced us into a confederacy of sorts. Afterwards I ordered a hot bath and lay in it much of the afternoon – feeling very sorry for Mary and Mr Becher, Elizabeth and Edleston, and everything else.

  *

  I have had another letter from the Edlestone, as Elizabeth calls him. His voice is breaking. Bankes took him aside on one of his Sunday afternoons; he is rather more fastidious than the choir-master. It grates on his nerves, he said, to feel himself in the presence of that awful transformation, from boy into man. ‘Do you wish me to keep away?’ Edleston said. To which Bankes apparently replied: ‘If you are willing to keep quiet, there are still one or two years of boyhood left to you.’

  Perhaps he intends to trick me into returning. All that sort of thing used to disgust him, but he does not say that he means to give up Bankes’s Sunday afternoons. In the round of his life there is little enough variety, to be sure, but I should be sorry to see him made use of as an object of pleasure.

  This is what comes of a long separation. For several days after the receipt of this letter, I felt out of temper. I kept it in a book I was reading but found myself reading the letter instead of the book. But then, we are often drawn to what displeases us. At present, I am too dipped to appear at Cambridge in anything like my old splendour, but have a notion of returning after the publication of my poems – as a man of letters, who may be forgiven the holes in his shoes and the stains in his shirt. Kitty is presently attempting to raise a loan from her Scotch relations, who are comfortable enough themselves to give comfort to others. If that fails, I may have to sell the carriage and two or three of my horses.

  As Elizabeth is the only person I speak to of my Cornelian, I thought she might confide in me about Mr Becher’s proposal. But she keeps her counsel wonderfully. It occurred to me at last that the proposal was not made public (by her own expressed desire), and she might not have known I was in the secret of it. So one day I raised it directly. We were sitting in my own front room, overlooking the Green, which was a very rich green as the rain had been falling steadily since breakfast. Kitty and Mrs Pigot had gone out to inspect one of Kitty’s improvements in the kitchen; they had just left. We had finished our tea, and I said something like, ‘Mr Becher looks to me very unhappy.’

  ‘He always looks unhappy,’ she said. ‘It is his beard. It is an unhappy beard.’

  ‘No, he has generally a humourless look, which is not at all the same thing.’

  ‘I thought he was a great friend of yours.’

  ‘So he is, which is why I dislike seeing him miserable.’

  After a minute, she said, ‘You say that, as if you believed me capable – as if you believed me capable of improving his state of mind.’

  ‘Yes, that is just what I do mean.’

  ‘But I am not capable of that.’

  There was a fire in the grate, which we both stared at. I was surprised at my feelings, of which resentment made up a large share; and it occurred to me that not all of it was on his behalf. She had done nothing to offend me – and yet, offence of a kind is just what I had taken.

  ‘Then I have been misinformed,’ I said. ‘He told me that he had put his happiness in your hands.’

  ‘Oh, if it were only my hands.’

  ‘I don’t understand you. I supposed you to admire him as much as any man alive. These are your own words; forgive me if I repeat them to you. Perhaps you had rather marry a dead man. His fortune is not great, but he has a respectable house, a good living, and the favour of a generous patroness. Of his attachment to you there can be no doubt. You have long been the object of his preference.’

  ‘I don’t intend to marry out of admiration. There is also the question of my preference.’

  We looked at each other for a moment, and she continued in a different tone, ‘But Byron this is no way for us to talk. This is not amusing to me, and we have determined always to be amusing. I hardly recognize you. You look as solemn as a penguin, and as for what you sound like …’ She gave a kind of laugh. ‘His fortune, his favour, his attachment. I am not used to thinking you such a paragon of propriety.’

  ‘It is odd you should say that, as I have just had a letter from my Cornelian. He complains as usual of my neglect, but not for the usual reason. It seems that in my absence he has become vulnerable to a kind of attention from which my presence alone might have protected him. Such is the regard in which I am generally held – only you are willing to brave my disapproval.’

  ‘And has he stood firm?’

  But it was the old tone again, and I only looked at her.

  ‘In spite of your neglect?’

  ‘I believe he has.’

  ‘It does not surprise me,’ she suddenly broke out, ‘that a young man should contract such a friendship. But that he should be proud of it!’

  The rain had ceased and a soft light made its way through the softening clouds, which had the effect of making everything in the room a little harder to see – even Elizabeth looked rather faded in the glow. She sat in her chair, and I sat on the sofa stretching my legs, not very comfortably. I stood up to poke at the fire. I think we both had the feeling that whatever we had to talk about had been talked out. After a minute (to put an end to the discussion), I said, ‘Indeed, I am not proud,’ and shortly thereafter Kitty and Mrs Pigot returned.

  *

  Since then there has been a little coolness between us, which is just as well; it does us good to be sometimes apart. Miss Leacroft quizzes me interminably about Elizabeth, and wonders whether we are to have ‘a proper Southwell wedding’, which is all a nonsense on her part – the fact that she mentions it at all shows her fears in that direction somewhat abated. I should be happy to give up the Leacrofts altogether, and the Pigots, too, now that John
is away. My solitude is busy enough. The latest ‘slim volume’ is nearly ready for the press, though it wants a title, and there is nothing to detain me here but Ridge and Kitty’s loan. I am waiting only on one or the other to return to Cambridge.

  Edleston says he has forgotten me. I am sure he will not recognize me, as I am slimmer even than I was, which is saying a good deal.

  Miss Leacroft tells me her brother is expected daily. The family are in a constant state of news-readiness about him. He was stationed off Martinique, when he was attacked or boarded or sunk or put in chains or stays (in any case, made to endure some species of nautical torment), in what I have no doubt was a very gallant action, involving two French frigates and a privateer. It is the privateer who comes in for their particular condemnation; it is what Tom had not reckoned on. Anyway, he was captured and subsequently re-captured – all in the space of a rather breathless week (the news came three days apart) and is now to be sent home again till he has got a new ship. The Diana was stove in.

  I have had one other piece of news. A few days ago a rather tall bearded stiff and painful-looking man appeared at our door, wishing to speak to his lordship. About fifty years of age, shabbily and dirtily dressed, but with an air of effort – a man meaning to look respectable. His lordship was duly summoned. I did not recognize him at first (which is no great surprise, as I had never met him), not even his name when he gave it. But after a minute, during which time he kept up a steady stream of embarrassment, under his breath and beard, and never once looking me in the eye, but talking all the time, it struck me just who it was and what he had made himself respectable for.

  He was none other than Mary’s father. It seems she has lately given birth, to some unfeathered, two-legged thing, and he wanted me to pay the interest on my paternity. I cannot exactly remember the terms he put to me, as I was so enraged: that if I did not pay a certain sum of moneys, for the care etc. of this same child – but before he could finish, I had beaten him about his ears so that he fell to his knees. I helped him to his feet and boxed his ears again. Then he limped away. At least the child (whoever he belongs to) has brought about a reconciliation of sorts between father and daughter; for when I last saw Mary she was black and blue with his interest in her situation, this being one of his phrases.

  For several hours afterwards I was too angry to write and went out shooting with Boatswain, firing at coins and birds. And it has been three days now. Somehow this anger has transmuted itself into something else and I have half a mind to ride over to Nottingham and inspect the brat. After all, it would be something to have a son. And my father never suffered much for the raising of me. His part of the business was over quickly enough. All this came over me in a kind of fever, and I relieved it, as I usually do, by scribbling. There was pleasure to be had in giving the boy my own blue eyes and imagining its mother dead. I felt for Mary a great deal more tenderly, laying her in the lowly turf, than I should at the sight of her, reclining amidst the luxuries of her trade in a second-floor room on a Nottingham side street. Besides, I should never be sure the child was my own, which counts against it; and the poem itself has somewhat exhausted the sentiments that inspired it. I rode over to Newark afterwards to give the page to Ridge in case there was time to include it in the new edition. There was not. Oh, but we have got a title for my book. Ridge himself suggested it. What do you say to Hours of Idleness, he said.

  ***

  I am back in Cambridge, though it was neither the publication of the Hours nor Kitty’s loan, which at last came through (in spirit, at least, if not in its material form; I have begged an advance off Hanson), that precipitated my immediate removal. It is almost fair to say I have been chased out. Mary’s noble father, after his reception at Burgage Manor, applied himself more successfully to blackening my name amongst the citizens of Southwell – by putting it abroad that I had promised to marry a poor innocent girl, his daughter, fitting up a house for her to be mistress of; afterwards getting her with child and abandoning both child and mother to their fate among the streets of Nottingham, etc. etc. The character of the informer was sufficiently obvious to any impartial judge that his lies were mostly ignored; but they had their effect on one party with a more particular interest in my reputation – that is, Mr Leacroft, who had been dangling his daughter before my eyes for the better part of a year, in a way that could only inspire in him strong sympathies for Mary’s father.

  All of this coincided with the return of Captain Leacroft, who sent me a rather shame-faced letter, as we get on very well together, that stopped just short of calling me out. As I wish him no harm, and he is an excellent shot, I interpreted this letter in the manner most favourable to his good sense. Miss Leacroft, meanwhile, has been forbidden to so much as speak to me. She saw me once as she was coming out of church and gave me a look (to do her justice) that suggested she felt everything she ought, and a good deal more than I had supposed. Her brother, at their father’s urging, then sent me a second letter, and we met, not at dawn exactly, but at the Coach and Horses, around four o’clock in the afternoon.

  He explained to me that his father’s sense of Julia’s honour would be perfectly satisfied by my extended absence from Southwell; but that if I remained, the family must demand some other satisfaction. Mr Leacroft hopes to rekindle the interest of Lady Hathwell’s steward, who is a good man, with some prospects; and was much in love. Julia meanwhile has lost all her colour – she has grown quite pale, not from weeping, but from its suppression, as Mr Leacroft finds her misery provoking. John, who is sick of the whole business, wishes for nothing but another ship to carry him into more peaceful waters. At least I could put his mind at rest. Since there is nothing to keep me in Southwell, I promised to leave; at which he, in a different tone, and with an air almost of disappointment, asked me if I had a message for his sister.

  I thought of answering Crede Byron, the family motto, but it seemed not exactly to meet the case. So I gave him instead a copy of my book, which I had about me, and wrote under my name on the fly-leaf, To Julia. Then, after considering a moment: Vixi puellis nuper idoneus.

  *

  Edleston in fact did not recognize me but passed by me twice while I was staring at hats in the window of Kettler’s on Charles Street. I caught his reflection in the glass and said nothing, though why it gives me such pleasure to go unrecognized is more than I can say. I have heard my name spoken at Fawlkes the Booksellers, on the steps of the Corn Exchange, in a chop-house, at the Mitre, and once, even, in chapel (there is a new boy in the choir Bankes wanted me to look at). As the author of Hours of Idleness, a nobleman, and a member of the University. It occurs to me at last what fame is: a kind of concealment, which permits me to eavesdrop on conversations regarding myself. Bankes has determined to act as a corrective. He likes to quote from the book, especially from the preface, which requires on my part a certain muscular rigour of expression.

  The second time Edleston passed me I called after him. He turned and looked at me and then – embraced me in the street, a cause for wonder, as he used to dislike extremely attracting attention. But he is much improved, in temper and character, and not so shy as he was, or vain, which is perhaps the same thing. His voice cracks occasionally and his face, which had never known a razor, bristles now unless he shaves it. There was some awkwardness at the beginning, as there always is in such cases, polite inquiries made and repetition of sentiments, but afterwards we walked along the Backs as far as Clare Bridge, and got along very well. We both indeed had the sense of possessing a great deal of news. The river was high (it had rained all week; this was the first sunshiny day), and the fields long in grass, and rich-smelling. The cows dined contentedly, and we sat down against the dry roots of a tree and watched them.

  Mr Ashdown has obtained a place for him as clerk in his own firm. The position is available from October, at which point Edleston will remove to London. And as I mean to go down in a fortnight, with no intention of returning until the beginning of term, we have bu
t two weeks left. At present he has nowhere to live in London and means to sleep in his sister’s parlour until he finds lodgings. This produced a slight embarrassment, as it raised again the question of our residing together, which we had talked of as a solution. Of course, he knows me to be a creature of strong habits, and a weak will; and it may well be, in October, that I choose to remain in London, and we can pursue our original plan. But he does not depend on it, which is all that I ask.

  When he asked me why at last I had decided to return to Cambridge (it could not be on his account, as I had kept away so long), I told him. Later he reverted to the subject of women and spoke lightly of making his fortune in London by a great match. Then the rain returned briefly, in spite of the heat. It was too hot to sit still, and since I did not feel like swimming, we walked back along the river to Trinity and agreed to meet again in the evening after chapel, which Edleston is obliged to attend.

  *

  We have met since, almost every morning and evening, for a week. I certainly love him more than any human being, and neither time or distance have had the least effect on my (in general) changeable disposition. After mattins Edleston comes to my room and wakes me and watches me dress – in boot and spur most days, as he hopes to become a gentleman and I am teaching him to ride. Then we ride out past Grantchester, as far as Hauxton church sometimes, or Harston, returning to dine at Grantchester. He used to have a strong aversion to drink, but he has given it up (his aversion, I mean), and we get drunk together. Indeed, I have not been very sober for a week, but as I touch no meat, nothing but fish, soup and vegetables, it does me no harm. Edleston gets drunk quickly, becoming first silent, then silly, then sleepy; then he falls asleep altogether. But I wake him again and we ride home. He does not sing in the choir, as his voice has broken, but is still expected to Evensong, to which he dutifully makes an appearance. More dutifully than decently, I should guess. So far no one has remarked on his condition. But this state of affairs cannot last, and will not – in a week I shall be gone.