Begin their talk: the girl, with sparkling eyes —
“Oh, I forewent him purposely! but you,
Who joined at — journeyed from the Junction here —
I wonder how he failed your notice. Few
Stop at our station: fellow-passengers
Assuredly you were — I saw indeed
His servant, therefore he arrived all right.
I wanted, you know why, to have you safe
Inside here first of all, so dodged about
The dark end of the platform; that’s his way —
To swing from station straight to avenue
And stride the half a mile for exercise.
I fancied you might notice the huge boy.
He soon gets o’er the distance; at the house
He’ll hear I went to meet him and have missed;
He’ll wait. No minute of the hour’s too much
Meantime for our preliminary talk:
First word of which must be — O good beyond
Expression of all goodness — you to come!”
The elder, the superb one, answers slow.
“There was no helping that. You called for me,
Cried, rather: and my old heart answered you.
Still, thank me! since the effort breaks a vow —
At least, a promise to myself.”
”I know!
How selfish get you happy folks to be!
If I should love my husband, must I needs
Sacrifice straightway all the world to him,
As you do? Must I never dare leave house
On this dread Arctic expedition, out
And in again, six mortal hours, though you —
You even, my own friend for evermore,
Adjure me — fast your friend till rude love pushed
Poor friendship from her vantage — just to grant
The quarter of a whole day’s company
And counsel? This makes counsel so much more
Need and necessity. For here’s my block
Of stumbling: in the face of happiness
So absolute, fear chills me. If such change
In heart be but love’s easy consequence,
Do I love? If to marry mean — let go
All I now live for, should my marriage be?”
The other never once has ceased to gaze
On the great elm-tree in the open, posed
Placidly full in front, smooth bole, broad branch,
And leafage, one green plenitude of May.
The gathered thought runs into speech at last.
“O you exceeding beauty, bosomful
Of lights and shades, murmurs and silences,
Sun-warmth, dew-coolness, — squirrel, bee and bird,
High, higher, highest, till the blue proclaims
‘Leave earth, there’s nothing better till next step
Heavenward!’ — so, off flies what has wings to help!”
And henceforth they alternate. Says the girl —
“That’s saved then: marriage spares the early taste.”
“Four years now, since my eye took note of tree!”
“If I had seen no other tree but this
My life-long, while yourself came straight, you said,
From tree which overstretched you and was just
One fairy tent with pitcher-leaves that held
Wine, and a flowery wealth of suns and moons,
And magic fruits whereon the angels feed —
I looking out of window on a tree
Like yonder — otherwise well-known, much-liked,
Yet just an English ordinary elm —
What marvel if you cured me of conceit
My elm’s bird bee and squirrel tenantry
Was quite the proud possession I supposed?
And there is evidence you tell me true,
The fairy marriage-tree reports itself
Good guardian of the perfect face and form,
Fruits of four years’ protection! Married friend,
You are more beautiful than ever!”
”Yes —
I think that likely. I could well dispense
With all thought fair in feature, mine or no,
Leave but enough of face to know me by —
With all found fresh in youth except such strength
As lets a life-long labour earn repose
Death sells at just that price, they say; and so,
Possibly, what I care not for, I keep.”
“How you must know he loves you! Chill, before,
Fear sinks to freezing. Could I sacrifice —
Assured my lover simply loves my soul —
One nose-breadth of fair feature? No, indeed! 100
Your own love...”
”The preliminary hour —
Don’t waste it!”
”But I can’t begin at once!
The angel’s self that comes to hear me speak
Drives away all the care about the speech.
What an angelic mystery you are —
Now — that is certain! when I knew you first,
No break of halo and no bud of wing!
I thought I knew you, saw you, round and through,
Like a glass ball; suddenly, four years since,
You vanished, how and whither? Mystery!
Wherefore? No mystery at all: you loved,
Were loved again, and left the world of course, —
Who would not? Lapped four years in fairyland,
Out comes, by no less wonderful a chance,
The changeling, touched athwart her trellised bliss
Of blush-rose bower by just the old friend’s voice
That’s now struck dumb at her own potency.
I talk of my small fortunes? Tell me yours —
Rather! The fool I ever was — I am,
You see that: the true friend you ever had,
You have, you also recognize. Perhaps,
Giving you all the love of all my heart,
Nature, that’s niggard in me, has denied
The after-birth of love there’s someone claims,
— This huge boy, swinging up the avenue;
And I want counsel — is defect in me,
Or him who has no right to raise the love?
My cousin asks my hand: he’s young enough,
Handsome, — my maid thinks, — manly’s more the word:
He asked my leave to ‘drop’ the elm-tree there,
Some morning before breaktast. Gentleness
Goes with the strength, of course. He’s honest too,
Limpidly truthful. For ability —
All’s in the rough yet. His first taste of life
Seems to have somehow gone against the tongue:
He travelled, tried things — came back, tried still more —
He says he’s sick of all. He’s fond of me
After a certain careless-earnest way
I like: the iron’s crude, — no polished steel
Somebody forged before me. I am rich —
That’s not the reason, he’s far richer: no,
Nor is it that he thinks me pretty, — frank
Undoubtedly on that point! He saw once
The pink of face-perfection — oh, not you —
Content yourself, my beauty! — for she proved
So thoroughly a cheat, his charmer ... nay,
He runs into extremes, I’ll say at once,
Lest you say! Well, I understand he wants.
Someone to serve, something to do: and both
Requisites so abound in me and mine
That here’s the obstacle which stops consent —
The smoothness is too smooth, and I mistrust
The unseen cat beneath the counterpane.
Therefore I thought — ’Would she but judge for me,
Who, judging for herself, succeeded so!’
Do I love him, does he love me, do both
Mistake for knowledge — easy ignorance?
Appeal to the proficient in each art!
I got rough-smooth through a piano-piece,
Rattled away last week till tutor came,
Heard me to end, then grunted ‘Ach, mein Gott!
Sagen Sie “easy”? Every note is wrong!
All thumped mit wrist: we’ll trouble fingers now!
The Fraulein will please roll up Raff again
And exercise at Czerny for one month!’
Am I to roll up cousin, exercise
At Trollope’s novels for a month? Pronounce!”
“Now, place each in the right position first,
Adviser and advised one! I perhaps
Am three — nay, four years older; am, beside,
A wife: advantages — to balance which,
You have a full fresh joyous sense of life
That finds you out life’s fit food everywhere,
Detects enjoyment where I, slow and dull,
Fumble at fault. Already, these four years,
Your merest glimpses at the world without
Have shown you more than ever met my gaze;
And now, by joyance you inspire joy, — learn
While you profess to teach, and teach, although
Avowedly a learner. I am dazed
Like any owl by sunshine which just sets
The sparrow preening plumage! Here’s to spy
— Your cousin! You have scanned him all your life,
Little or much; I never saw his face.
You have determined on a marriage — used
Deliberation therefore — I’ll believe
No otherwise, with opportunity
For judgment so abounding! Here stand I —
Summoned to give my sentence, for a whim,
(Well, at first cloud-fleck thrown athwart your blue)
On what is Strangeness’ self tome, — say ‘Wed!’
Or ‘Wed not!’ whom you promise I shall judge
Presently, at propitious lunch-time, just
While he carves chicken! Sends he leg for wing?
That revelation into character
And conduct must suffice me! Quite as well
Consult with yonder solitary crow
That eyes us from your elm-top!”
”Still the same!
Do you remember, at the library
We saw together somewhere, those two books 200
Somebody said were notice-worthy? One
Lay wide on table, sprawled its painted leaves
For all the world’s inspection; shut on shelf
Reclined the other volume, closed, clasped, locked —
Clear to be let alone. Which page had we
Preferred the turning over of? You were,
Are, ever will be the locked lady, hold
Inside you secrets written, — soul absorbed,
My ink upon your blotting-paper. I —
What trace of you have I to show in turn?
Delicate secrets! No one juvenile
Ever essayed at croquet and performed
Superiorly but I confided you
The sort of hat he wore and hair it held.
While you? One day a calm note comes by post —
‘I am just married, you may like to hear.’
Most men would hate you, or they ought; we love
What we fear, — I do! ‘Cold’ I shall expect
My cousin calls you. I — dislike not him,
But (if I comprehend what loving means)
Love you immeasurably more — more — more
Than even he who, loving you his wife,
Would turn up nose at me impertinent,
Frivolous, forward — loves that excellence
Of all the earth he bows in worship to!
And who’s this paragon of privilege?
Simply a country parson: his the charm
That worked the miracle! Oh, too absurd —
But that you stand before me as you stand!
Such beauty does prove something, everything!
Beauty’s the prize-flower which dispenses eye
From peering into what has nourished root —
Dew or manure: the plant best knows its place.
Enough, from teaching youth and tending age
And hearing sermons, — haply writing tracts, —
From such strange love-besprinkled compost, lo,
Out blows this triumph! Therefore love’s the soil
Plants find or fail of. You, with wit to find,
Exercise wit on the old friend’s behalf,
Keep me from failure! Scan and scrutinize
This cousin! Surely he’s as worth your pains
To study as my elm-tree, crow and all,
You still keep staring at! I read your thoughts!”
“At last?”
”At first! ‘Would, tree, a-top of thee
I winged were, like crow perched moveless there,
And so could straightway soar, escape this bore,
Back to my nest where broods whom I love best —
The parson o’er his parish — garish — rarish — ’
Oh I could bring the rhyme in if I tried:
The Album here inspires me! Quite apart
From lyrical expression, have I read
The stare aright, and sings not soul just so? “
“Or rather so? ‘Cool comfortable elm
That men make coffins out of, — none for me
At thy expense, so thou permit I glide
Under thy ferny feet, and there sleep, sleep,
Nor dread awaking though in heaven itself!’ “
The younger looks with face struck sudden white.
The elder answers its inquiry.
”Dear,
You are a guesser, not a ‘clairvoyante,’
I’ll so far open you the locked and shelved
Volume, my soul, that you desire to see,
As let you profit by the title-page — ”
“Paradise Lost?”
”Inferno! — All which comes
Of tempting me to break my vow. Stop here!
Friend, whom I love the best in the whole world,
Come at your call, be sure that I will do
At your requirement — see and say my mind.
It may be that by sad apprenticeship
I have a keener sense: I’ll task the same.
Only indulge me — here let sight and speech
Happen — this Inn is neutral ground, you know!
I cannot visit the old house and home,
Encounter the old sociality
Abjured for ever. Peril quite enough
In even this first — last, I pray it prove —
Renunciation of my solitude!
Back, you, to house and cousin! Leave me here,
Who want no entertainment, carry still
My occupation with me. While I watch
The shadow inching round those ferny feet,
Tell him ‘A school-friend wants a word with me
Up at the inn: time, tide and train won’t wait:
I must go see her — on and off again —
You’ll keep me company?’ Ten minutes’ talk,
With you in presence, ten more afterward
With who, alone, convoys me station-bound,
And I see clearly — to say honestly
To-morrow: pen shall play tongue’s part, you know!
Go — quick! for I have made our hand-in-hand
Return impossible. So scared you look, —
If cousin does not greet you with ‘What ghost
Has crossed your path?’ I set him down obtuse.”
And after one more look, with face still white,
The younger does go, while the elder stands
Occupied by the elm at window there.
IV
Occupied by the elm; and, as its shade
Has crept clock-hand-wis
e till it ticks at fern
Five inches further to the South, — the door
Opens abruptly, someone enters sharp,
The elder man returned to wait the youth —
Never observes the room’s new occupant,
Throws hat on table, stoops quick, elbow-propped
Over the Album wide there, bends down brow
A cogitative minute, whistles shrill,
Then, — with a cheery-hopeless laugh-and-lose
Air of defiance to fate visibly
Casting the toils about him, — mouths once more
“Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!”
Then clasps-to cover, sends book spinning off
T’other side table, looks up, starts erect
Full-face with her who, — roused from that abstruse
Question, “Will next tick tip the fern or no?”, —
Fronts him as fully.
All her languor breaks,
Away withers at once the weariness
From the black-blooded brow, anger and hate
Convulse. Speech follows slowlier, but at last —
“You here! I felt, I knew it would befall!
Knew, by some subtle undivinable
Trick of the trickster, I should, silly-sooth,
Late of soon, somehow be allured to leave
Safe hiding and come take of him arrears,
My torment due on four years’ respite! Time
To pluck the bird’s healed breast of down o’er wound!
Have your success! Be satisfied this sole
Seeing you has undone all heaven could do
These four years, puts me back to you and hell!
What will next trick be, next success? No doubt
When I shall think to glide into the grave,
There will you wait disguised as beckoning Death,
And catch and capture me for evermore!
But, God, though I am nothing, be thou all!
Contest him for me! Strive, for he is strong!”
Already his surprise dies palely out
In laugh of acquiescing impotence.
He neither gasps nor hisses: calm and plain —
“I also felt and knew — but otherwise!
You out of hand and sight and care of me
These four years, whom I felt, knew, all the while ...
Oh, it’s no superstition! It’s a gift
O’ the gamester that he snuffs the unseen powers
Which help or harm him! Well I knew what lurked,
Lay perdue paralysing me, — drugged, drowsed
And damnified my soul and body both!
Down and down, see where you have dragged me to,
You and your malice! I was, four years since,
— Well, a poor creature! I become a knave.
I squandered my own pence: I plump my purse
With other people’s pounds. I practised play
Because I liked it: play turns labour now
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 189