Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  For all this sunlight. You suppose, perhaps,

  That you, sole offspring of an opulent man,

  Are rich and free to choose a way to walk?

  You think, and it’s a reasonable thought,

  That I besides, being well to do in life,

  Will leave my handful in my niece’s hand

  When death shall paralyse these fingers? Pray,

  Pray, child,–albeit I know you love me not,–

  As if you loved me, that I may not die!

  For when I die and leave you, out you go,

  (Unless I make room for you in my grave)

  Unhoused, unfed, my dear, poor brother’s lamb,

  (Ah heaven,–that pains!)–without a right to crop

  A single blade of grass beneath these trees,

  Or cast a lamb’s small shadow on the lawn,

  Unfed, unfolded! Ah, my brother, here’s

  The fruit you planted in your foreign loves!–

  Ay, there’s the fruit he planted! never look

  Astonished at me with your mother’s eyes,

  For it was they, who set you where you are,

  An undowered orphan. Child, your father’s choice

  Of that said mother, disinherited

  His daughter, his and hers. Men do not think

  Of sons and daughters, when they fall in love,

  So much more than of sisters; otherwise,

  He would have paused to ponder what he did,

  And shrunk before that clause in the entail

  Excluding offspring by a foreign wife

  (The clause set up a hundred years ago

  By a Leigh who wedded a French dancing-girl

  And had his heart danced over in return)

  But this man shrunk at nothing, never thought

  Of you, Aurora, any more than me–

  Your mother must have been a pretty thing,

  For all the coarse Italian blacks and browns,

  To make a good man, which my brother was,

  Unchary of the duties to his house;

  But so it fell indeed. Our cousin Vane,

  Vane Leigh, the father of this Romney, wrote

  Directly on your birth, to Italy,

  ‘I ask your baby daughter for my son

  In whom the entail now merges by the law.

  Betroth her to us out of love, instead

  Of colder reasons, and she shall not lose

  By love or law from henceforth’–so he wrote;

  A generous cousin, was my cousin Vane.

  Remember how he drew you to his knee

  The year you came here, just before he died,

  And hollowed out his hands to hold your cheeks,

  And wished them redder,–you remember Vane?

  And now his son who represents our house

  And holds the fiefs and manors in his place,

  To whom reverts my pittance when I die,

  (Except a few books and a pair of shawls)

  The boy is generous like him, and prepared

  To carry out his kindest word and thought

  To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine young man

  Is Romney Leigh; although the sun of youth

  Has shone too straight upon his brain, I know,

  And fevered him with dreams of doing good

  To good-for-nothing people. But a wife

  Will put all right, and stroke his temples cool

  With healthy touches’ . .

  I broke in at that.

  I could not lift my heavy heart to breathe

  Till then, but then I raised it, and it fell

  In broken words like these–’No need to wait.

  The dream of doing good to . . me, at least,

  Is ended, without waiting for a wife

  To cool the fever for him. We’ve escaped

  That danger . . thank Heaven for it.’

  You,’ she cried,

  ‘Have got a fever. What, I talk and talk

  An hour long to you,–I instruct you how

  You cannot eat or drink or stand or sit

  Or even die, like any decent wretch

  In all this unroofed and unfurnished world,

  Without your cousin,–and you still maintain

  There’s room ‘twixt him and you, for flirting fans

  And running knots in eyebrows! You must have

  A pattern lover sighing on his knee:

  You do not count enough a noble heart,

  Above book-patterns, which this very morn

  Unclosed itself, in two dear fathers’ names,

  To embrace your orphaned life! fie, fie! But stay

  I write a word, and counteract this sin.’

  She would have turned to leave me, but I clung.

  ‘O sweet my father’s sister, hear my word

  Before you write yours. Cousin Vane did well,

  And Romney well,–and I well too,

  In casting back with all my strength and will

  The good they meant me. O my God, my God!

  God meant me good, too, when he hindered me

  From saying ‘yes’ this morning. If you write

  A word, it shall be ‘no.’ I say no, no!

  I tie up ‘no’ upon His altar-horns

  Quite out of reach of perjury! At least

  My soul is not a pauper; I can live

  At least my soul’s life, without alms from men,

  And if it must be in heaven instead of earth,

  Let heaven look to it,–I am not afraid.’

  She seized my hands with both hers, strained them fast

  And drew her probing and unscrupulous eyes

  Right through me, body and heart. ‘Yet, foolish Sweet,

  You love this man. I have watched you when he came

  And when he went, and when we’ve talked of him:

  I am not old for nothing; I can tell

  The weather-signs of love–you love this man.’

  Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive,

  Half wishing they were dead to save the shame.

  The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow;

  They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats,

  And flare up bodily, wings and all. What then?

  Who’s sorry for a gnat . . or girl?

  I blushed.

  I feel the brand upon my forehead now

  Strike hot, sear deep, as guiltless men may feel

  The felon’s iron, say, and scorn the mark

  Of what they are not. Most illogical

  Irrational nature of our womanhood,

  That blushes one way, feels another way,

  And prays, perhaps, another! After all,

  We cannot be the equal of the male,

  Who rules his blood a little.

  For although

  I blushed indeed, as if I loved the man,

  And her incisive smile, accrediting

  That treason of false witness in my blush,

  Did bow me downward like a swathe of grass

  Below its level that struck me,–I attest

  The conscious skies and all their daily suns,

  I think I loved him not . . nor then, nor since . .

  Nor ever. Do we love the schoolmaster,

  Being busy in the woods? much less, being poor,

  The overseer of the parish? Do we keep

  Our love, to pay our debts with?

  White and cold

  I grew next moment. As my blood recoiled

  From that imputed ignominy, I made

  My heart great with it. Then, at last I spoke,–

  Spoke veritable words, but passionate,

  Too passionate perhaps . . ground up with sobs

  To shapeless endings. She let fall my hands,

  And took her smile off, in sedate disgust,

  As peradventure she had touched a snake,–

  A dead snake, mind!–and, turning round, replied

  ‘We’ll leave Italian manners
, if you please.

  I think you had an English father, child,

  And ought to find it possible to speak

  A quiet ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ like English girls,

  Without convulsions. In another month

  We’ll take another answer . . no, or yes.’

  With that she left me in the garden-walk.

  I had a father! yes, but long ago–

  How long it seemed that moment!–Oh, how far,

  How far and safe, God, dost thou keep thy saints

  When once gone from us! We may call against

  The lighted windows of thy fair June-heaven

  Where all the souls are happy,–and not one,

  Not even my father, look from work or play

  To ask, ‘Who is it that cries after us,

  Below there, in the dusk?’ Yet formerly

  He turned his face upon me quick enough,

  If I said ‘father.’ Now I might cry loud;

  The little lark reached higher with his song

  Than I with crying. Oh, alone, alone,–

  Not troubling any in heaven, nor any on earth,

  I stood there in the garden, and looked up

  The deaf blue sky that brings the roses out

  On such June mornings.

  You who keep account

  Of crisis and transition in this life,

  Set down the first time Nature says plain ‘no’

  To some ‘yes’ in you, and walks over you

  In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all begin

  By singing with the birds, and running fast

  With June-days, hand in hand: but once, for all,

  The birds must sing against us, and the sun

  Strike down upon us like a friend’s sword caught

  By an enemy to slay us, while we read

  The dear name on the blade which bites at us!–

  That’s bitter and convincing: after that

  We seldom doubt that something in the large

  Smooth order of creation, though no more

  Than haply a man’s footstep, has gone wrong.

  Some tears fell down my cheeks, and then I smiled,

  As those smile who have no face in the world

  To smile back to them. I had lost a friend

  In Romney Leigh; the thing was sure–a friend,

  Who had looked at me most gently now and then,

  And spoken of my favourite books . . ‘our books’ . .

  With such a voice! Well, voice and look were now

  More utterly shut out from me, I felt,

  Than even my father’s. Romney now was turned

  To a benefactor, to a generous man,

  Who had tied himself to marry . . me, instead

  Of such a woman, with low timorous lids

  He lifted with a sudden word one day,

  And left, perhaps, for my sake.–Ah, self-tied

  By a contract,–male Iphigenia, bound

  At a fatal Aulis, for the winds to change,

  (But loose him–they’ll not change;) he well might seem

  A little cold and dominant in love!

  He had a right to be dogmatical,

  This poor, good Romney. Love, to him, was made

  A simple law-clause. If I married him,

  I would not dare to call my soul my own,

  Which so he had bought and paid for: every thought

  And every heart-beat down there in the bill,–

  Not one found honestly deductible

  From any use that pleased him! He might cut

  My body into coins to give away

  Among his other paupers; change my sons,

  While I stood dumb as Griseld, for black babes

  Or piteous foundlings; might unquestioned set

  My right hand teaching in the Ragged Schools,

  My left hand washing in the Public Baths,

  What time my angel of the Ideal stretched

  Both his to me in vain! I could not claim

  The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to squeal.

  And take so much as pity, from myself.

  Farewell, good Romney! if I loved you even,

  I could but ill afford to let you be

  So generous to me. Farewell, friend, since friend

  Betwixt us two, forsooth, must be a word

  So heavily overladen. And, since help

  Must come to me from those who love me not,

  Farewell, all helpers–I must help myself,

  And am alone from henceforth.–Then I stooped,

  And lifted the soiled garland from the ground,

  And set it on my head as bitterly

  As when the Spanish king did crown the bones

  Of his dead love. So be it. I preserve

  That crown still,–in the drawer there! ‘twas the first;

  The rest are like it;–those Olympian crowns,

  We run for, till we lose sight of the sun

  In the dust of the racing chariots!

  After that,

  Before the evening fell, I had a note

  Which ran,–’Aurora, sweet Chaldean, you read

  My meaning backward like your eastern books,

  While I am from the west, dear. Read me now

  A little plainer. Did you hate me quite

  But yesterday? I loved you for my part;

  I love you. If I spoke untenderly

  This morning, my beloved, pardon it;

  And comprehend me that I loved you so,

  I set you on the level of my soul,

  And overwashed you with the bitter brine

  Of some habitual thoughts. Henceforth, my flower,

  Be planted out of reach of any such,

  And lean the side you please, with all your leaves!

  Write woman’s verses and dream woman’s dreams;

  But let me feel your perfume in my home,

  To make my sabbath after working-days;

  Bloom out your youth beside me,–be my wife.’

  I wrote in answer–’We, Chaldeans, discern

  Still farther than we read. I know your heart

  And shut it like the holy book it is,

  Reserved for mild-eyed saints to pore upon

  Betwixt their prayers at vespers. Well, you’re right,

  I did not surely hate you yesterday;

  And yet I do not love you enough to-day

  To wed you, cousin Romney. Take this word,

  And let it stop you as a generous man

  From speaking farther. You may tease, indeed,

  And blow about my feelings, or my leaves,–

  And here’s my aunt will help you with east winds,

  And break a stalk, perhaps, tormenting me;

  But certain flowers grow near as deep as trees,

  And, cousin, you’ll not move my root, not you,

  With all your confluent storms. Then let me grow

  Within my wayside hedge, and pass your way!

  This flower has never as much to say to you

  As the antique tomb which said to travellers, ‘Pause,

  ‘Siste, viator.’’ Ending thus, I signed.

  The next week passed in silence, so the next,

  And several after: Romney did not come,

  Nor my aunt chide me. I lived on and on,

  As if my heart were kept beneath a glass,

  And everybody stood, all eyes and ears,

  To see and hear it tick. I could not sit,

  Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it down,

  Nor sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch

  And a sigh with it, but I felt her looks

  Still cleaving to me, like the sucking asp

  To Cleopatra’s breast, persistently

  Through the intermittent pantings. Being observed,

  When observation is not sympathy,

  Is just being tortured. If she said a word,

  A ‘thank you,’ or an ‘if it please you, dear.’

  She m
eant a commination, or, at best,

  An exorcism against the devildom

  Which plainly held me. So with all the house.

  Susannah could not stand and twist my hair,

  Without such glancing at the looking-glass

  To see my face there, that she missed the plait:

  And John,–I never sent my plate for soup,

  Or did not send it, but the foolish John

  Resolved the problem, ‘twixt his napkined thumbs,

  Of what was signified by taking soup

  Or choosing mackerel. Neighbours, who dropped in

  On morning visits, feeling a joint wrong,

  Smiled admonition, sate uneasily,

  And talked with measured, emphasised reserve,

  Of parish news, like doctors to the sick,

  When not called in,–as if, with leave to speak,

  They might say something. Nay, the very dog

  Would watch me from his sun-patch on the floor,

  In alternation with the large black fly

  Not yet in reach of snapping. So I lived.

  A Roman died so: smeared with honey, teased

  By insects, stared to torture by the noon:

  And many patient souls ‘neath English roofs

  Have died like Romans. I, in looking back,

  Wish only, now, I had borne the plague of all

  With meeker spirits than were rife in Rome.

  For, on the sixth week, the dead sea broke up,

  Dashed suddenly through beneath the heel of Him

  Who stands upon the sea and earth, and swears

  Time shall be nevermore. The clock struck nine

  That morning, too,–no lark was out of tune;

  The hidden farms among the hills, breathed straight

  Their smoke toward heaven; the lime-trees scarcely stirred

  Beneath the blue weight of the cloudless sky,

  Though still the July air came floating through

  The woodbine at my window, in and out,

  With touches of the out-door country-news

  For a bending forehead. There I sate, and wished

  That morning-truce of God would last till eve,

  Or longer. ‘Sleep,’ I thought, ‘late sleepers,–sleep,

  And spare me yet the burden of your eyes.’

  Then, suddenly, a single ghastly shriek

  Tore upwards from the bottom of the house.

  Like one who wakens in a grave and shrieks,

  The still house seemed to shriek itself alive,

  And shudder through its passages and stairs

  With slam of doors and clash of bells.–I sprang,

  I stood up in the middle of the room,

  And there confronted at my chamber-door,

  A white face,–shivering, ineffectual lips.