It was not an easy matter to absorb this information, while trying to soothe an agitated Miss Fraser, and while gesturing at a large painting and saying, “Waves… the waves… don’t you think? Yes, the waves are very… wave-like.”
Mr. Gibson was to lose his youthful partner when dinner was announced, for Janet Fraser saw to it that Miss Fraser was escorted into the dining room by Mr. Meriwether, and Mr. Gibson’s arm was assigned to bring a different lady safely from the drawing-room to the table.
The change of rooms and company brought a change of topic. Janet Fraser, her sister Lady Stornoway and all of her female friends, were entirely taken up with Lord Byron and his new romantic poem, and could speak of nothing else.
“Childe Harold, I think everyone must acknowledge,” Janet Fraser declared, “is something new and bold, something completely romantic. His writing is so very forceful! Cowper or Pope seem quite old-fashioned now, in the comparison.”
“Is it ‘child’ with an ‘e’ or Harold with an ‘e’?” asked another fair guest. “I can never recollect.”
“I can commend any young man, born to wealth, rank and ease, who has exerted himself to write and publish,” said Mr. Meriwether. “But only time will tell if the author will join the first ranks of our poets.”
Mrs. Fraser shot Margaret a piercing glance.
“Indeed!” said Margaret. “Pray, go on, Mr. Meriwether.”
“As a travelogue,” continued Mr. Meriwether, “The poem is interesting enough. Byron’s descriptions display talent and spirit, but I find his medieval language to be quite affected and ridiculous—with his ‘lemans’ and his ‘lays’ and his ‘wights.’”
“If I must say what I think,” Mr. Fraser said, “Childe Harold is a somewhat vulgar publication. It has no moral tendency.”
“Anything that is so honest, so revelatory of the heart of an ardent young man,” countered his wife, “cannot be considered vulgar.” She recited, with great feeling: “Ours too the glance none saw beside, the smile none else might understand, the whispered thought of hearts allied, the pressure of the thrilling hand!”
“The poem may not be suitable for young persons,” said her husband, “but it does not follow that it is of interest to adults.”
“True, Mr. Fraser,” answered his wife. “In fact, I doubt that it can be properly appreciated by any person in whom all youthful passions have been extinguished.”
“It is his youth which tells against him,” added Mr. Fraser with some asperity. “He labours too hard to display his classical learning, and he is altogether too self-important.”
“Mr. Meriwether,” Margaret interposed, for she was thoroughly weary of the familiar squabbles between her father and mother-in-law. “Did you use your own horses for the journey from Bristol?”
The conversation turned to horses for a time, and from there to long journeys, and then to travelling abroad, which recalled Janet Fraser to Childe Harold.
“The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,” she declaimed, rolling her eyes expressively. “The vine on high, the willow branch below, mix’d in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. How exquisite! It is seldom one encounters such passionate sensibilities in a man—and such poetic gifts!”
“What do you think, Mr. Gibson?” Mr. Meriwether nodded across the table. “I fear we need to reform ourselves if we are to win the notice of the fair sex in the future. We must wear our shirts open at the neck, and take care that our hair curls loosely over our foreheads.”
“And you must always look distracted, as though you were composing some tragic sonnet,” Mary Bertram cried. “And eat only biscuits, and drink only soda-water.”
“Now there is a sacrifice I am not prepared to make,” Mr. Meriwether laughed.
The ladies took their solicitude for Lord Byron with them when they retired to the drawing room, and Mr. Gibson enjoyed conversing with Mr. Meriwether about mutual acquaintance in Bristol, and the recent meeting of the African Institution. But upon re-joining the ladies, the gentlemen re-joined their praise of the poet and his poem:
“…All I know is, Byron is the very handsomest man I ever saw.”
“Oh! Did you really see him in person?”
“Yes. I was riding on Rotten Row, and he was there, in Lady Melbourne’s carriage.”
“How tall is he?”
“What was he wearing?”
“Did you catch his eye?”
“Oh! There is something very—how shall I say—not quite polite about him.”
Janet Fraser detached herself from her female guests, came eagerly forward and took Mr. Gibson’s arm.
“Mr. Gibson, I am told that you read aloud beautifully.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“Could I venture to ask—would you not object to reading to us now? We would all be most excessively delighted if you would.”
“I am at your service, ma’am, if the rest of the company is in agreement. Would you care to hear some short portion of—”
“Oh thank you! Thank you! Here you are, Mr. Gibson. Here is my copy of Childe Harold.” And the volume was placed in his hands.
* * * * * * *
The season, the month, the time had arrived for Mrs. Butters to pay her annual visit to her niece Honoria Smallridge in Bristol. The signifier for this journey was not the sound of birdsong or the flowering of the forsythia shrubs, but the growing restlessness and irritability of Mrs. McIntosh, the housekeeper.
“Mrs. McIntosh must commence her spring-cleaning now, Fanny, or I shall not be answerable for the consequences if she is prevented, for one more day, from making a
