Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  ‘Come, come,’ they tried to utter, and I went;

  As if a ghost had drawn me at the point

  Of a fiery finger through the uneven dark,

  I went with reeling footsteps down the stair.

  Nor asked a question.

  There she sate, my aunt,–

  Bolt upright in the chair beside her bed,

  Whose pillow had no dint! she had used no bed

  For that night’s sleeping . . yet slept well. My God

  The dumb derision of that grey, peaked face

  Concluded something grave against the sun,

  Which filled the chamber with its July burst

  When Susan drew the curtains, ignorant

  Of who sate open-eyed behind her. There,

  She sate . . it sate . . we said ‘she’ yesterday . .

  And held a letter with unbroken seal,

  As Susan gave it to her hand last night:

  All night she had held it. If its news referred

  To duchies or to dunghills, not an inch

  She’d budge, ‘twas obvious, for such worthless odds:

  Nor, though the stars were suns, and overburned

  Their spheric limitations, swallowing up

  Like wax the azure spaces, could they force

  Those open eyes to wink once. What last sight

  Had left them blank and flat so,–drawing out

  The faculty of vision from the roots,

  As nothing more, worth seeing, remained behind?

  Were those the eyes that watched me, worried me?

  That dogged me up and down the hours and days,

  A beaten, breathless, miserable soul?

  And did I pray, a half hour back, but so,

  To escape the burden of those eyes . . those eyes?

  ‘Sleep late’ I said.–

  Why now, indeed, they sleep.

  God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers,

  And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face,

  A gauntlet with a gift in’t. Every wish

  Is like a prayer . . With God.

  I had my wish,–

  To read and meditate the thing I would,

  To fashion all my life upon my thought,

  And marry, or not marry. Henceforth, none

  Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper me.

  Full ground-room, in this desert newly made,

  For Babylon or Balbec,–when the breath,

  Just choked with sand, returns, for building towns!

  The heir came over on the funeral day,

  And we two cousins met before the dead,

  With two pale faces. Was it death or life

  That moved us? When the will was read and done,

  The official guest and witnesses withdrawn,

  We rose up in a silence almost hard,

  And looked at one another. Then I said,

  ‘Farewell, my cousin.’

  But he touched, just touched

  My hatstrings tied for going, (at the door

  The carriage stood to take me) and said low,

  His voice a little unsteady through his smile,

  ‘Siste, viator.’

  ‘Is there time,’ I asked,

  ‘In these last days of railroads, to stop short

  Like Cæsar’s chariot (weighing half a ton)

  On the Appian road for morals?’

  ‘There is time,’

  He answered grave, ‘for necessary words,

  Inclusive, trust me, of no epitaph

  On man or act, my cousin. We have read

  A will, which gives you all the personal goods

  And funded monies of your aunt.’

  ‘I thank

  Her memory for it. With three hundred pounds

  We buy in England even, clear standing-room

  To stand and work in. Only two hours since,

  I fancied I was poor.’

  ‘And cousin, still

  You’re richer than you fancy. The will says,

  Three hundred pounds, and any other sum

  Of which the said testatrix dies possessed.

  I say she died possessed of other sums.’

  ‘Dear Romney, need we chronicle the pence?

  I’m richer than I thought–that’s evident.

  Enough so.’

  ‘Listen rather. You’ve to do

  With business and a cousin,’ he resumed,

  ‘And both, I fear, need patience. Here’s the fact.

  The other sum (there is another sum,

  Unspecified in any will which dates

  After possession, yet bequeathed as much

  And clearly as those said three hundred pounds)

  Is thirty thousand. You will have it paid

  When? . . where? My duty troubles you with words.’

  He struck the iron when the bar was hot;

  No wonder if my eyes sent out some sparks.

  ‘Pause there! I thank you. You are delicate

  In glosing gifts;–but I, who share your blood,

  Am rather made for giving, like yourself,

  Than taking, like your pensioners. Farewell.’

  He stopped me with a gesture of calm pride.

  ‘A Leigh,’ he said, ‘gives largesse and gives love,

  But gloses neither: if a Leigh could glose,

  He would not do it, moreover, to a Leigh,

  With blood trained up along nine centuries

  To hound and hate a lie, from eyes like yours.

  And now we’ll make the rest as clear; your aunt

  Possessed these monies.’

  ‘You’ll make it clear,

  My cousin, as the honour of us both,

  Or one of us speaks vainly–that’s not I.

  My aunt possessed this sum,–inherited

  From whom, and when? bring documents, prove dates.’

  ‘Why now indeed you throw your bonnet off.

  As if you had time left for a logarithm!

  The faith’s the want. Dear cousin, give me faith,

  And you shall walk this road with silken shoes,

  As clean as any lady of our house

  Supposed the proudest. Oh, I comprehend

  The whole position from your point of sight.

  I oust you from your father’s halls and lands,

  And make you poor by getting rich–that’s law;

  Considering which, in common circumstance,

  You would not scruple to accept from me

  Some compensation, some sufficiency

  Of income–that were justice; but, alas,

  I love you . . that’s mere nature!–you reject

  My love . . that’s nature also;–and at once,

  You cannot, from a suitor disallowed,

  A hand thrown back as mine is, into yours

  Receive a doit, a farthing, . . not for the world!

  That’s etiquette with women, obviously

  Exceeding claim of nature, law, and right,

  Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see,

  The case as you conceive it,–leave you room

  To sweep your ample skirts of womanhood;

  While, standing humbly squeezed against the wall,

  I own myself excluded from being just,

  Restrained from paying indubitable debts,

  Because denied from giving you my soul–

  That’s my fortune!–I submit to it

  As if, in some more reasonable age,

  ‘Twould not be less inevitable. Enough.

  You’ll trust me, cousin, as a gentleman,

  To keep your honour, as you count it, pure,–

  Your scruples (just as if I thought them wise)

  Safe and inviolate from gifts of mine.’

  I answered mild but earnest. ‘I believe

  In no one’s honour which another keeps,

  Nor man’s nor woman’s. As I keep, myself,

  My truth and my religion, I depute

  No fathe
r, though I had one this side death,

  Nor brother, though I had twenty, much less you,

  Though twice my cousin, and once Romney Leigh,

  To keep my honour pure. You face, today,

  A man who wants instruction, mark me, not

  A woman who wants protection. As to a man,

  Show manhood, speak out plainly, be precise

  With facts and dates. My aunt inherited

  This sum, you say–’

  ‘I said she died possessed

  Of this, dear cousin.’

  ‘Not by heritage.

  Thank you: we’re getting to the facts at last.

  Perhaps she played at commerce with a ship

  Which came in heavy with Australian gold?

  Or touched a lottery with her finger-end,

  Which tumbled on a sudden into her lap

  Some old Rhine tower or principality?

  Perhaps she had to do with a marine

  Sub-transatlantic railroad, which pre-pays

  As well as pre-supposes? or perhaps

  Some stale ancestral debt was after-paid

  By a hundred years, and took her by surprise?–

  You shake your head my cousin; I guess ill.’

  ‘You need not guess, Aurora, nor deride,

  The truth is not afraid of hurting you.

  You’ll find no cause, in all your scruples, why

  Your aunt should cavil at a deed of gift

  ‘Twixt her and me.’

  ‘I thought so–ah ! a gift.’

  ‘You naturally thought so,’ he resumed.

  ‘A very natural gift.’

  ‘A gift, a gift!

  Her individual life being stranded high

  Above all want, approaching opulence,

  Too haughty was she to accept a gift

  Without some ultimate aim: ah, ah, I see,–

  A gift intended plainly for her heirs,

  And so accepted . . if accepted . . ah,

  Indeed that might be; I am snared perhaps,

  Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon you,

  If thus you have caught me with a cruel springe?’

  He answered gently, ‘Need you tremble and pant

  Like a netted lioness? is’t my fault, mine,

  That you’re a grand wild creature of the woods,

  And hate the stall built for you? Any way,

  Though triply netted, need you glare at me?

  I do not hold the cords of such a net,

  You’re free from me, Aurora!’

  ‘Now may God

  Deliver me from this strait! This gift of yours

  Was tendered . . when ? accepted . . when ?’ I asked.

  ‘A month . . a fortnight since ? Six weeks ago

  It was not tendered. By a word she dropped,

  I know it was not tendered nor received.

  When was it ? bring your dates.’

  ‘What matters when?

  A half-hour ere she died, or a half-year,

  Secured the gift, maintains the heritage

  Inviolable with law. As easy pluck

  The golden stars from heaven’s embroidered stole,

  To pin them on the grey side of this earth,

  As make you poor again, thank God.’

  ‘Not poor

  Nor clean again from henceforth, you thank God?

  Well, sir–I ask you . . I insist at need . .

  Vouchsafe the special date, the special date.’

  ‘The day before her death-day,’ he replied,

  ‘The gift was in her hands. We’ll find that deed,

  And certify that date to you.’

  As one

  Who has climbed a mountain-height and carried up

  His own heart climbing, panting in his throat

  With the toil of the ascent, takes breath at last,

  Looks back in triumph–so I stood and looked:

  ‘Dear cousin Romney, we have reached the top

  Of this steep question, and may rest, I think.

  But first, I pray you pardon, that the shock

  And surge of natural feeling and event

  Had made me oblivious of acquainting you

  That this, this letter . . unread, mark,–still sealed,

  Was found enfolded in the poor dead hand:

  That spirit of hers had gone beyond the address,

  Which could not find her though you wrote it clear.–

  I know your writing, Romney,–recognise

  The open-hearted A, the liberal sweep

  Of the G. Now listen,–let us understand;

  You will not find that famous deed of gift,

  Unless you find it in the letter here,

  Which, not being mine, I give you back.–Refuse

  To take the letter? well then–you and I,

  As writer and as heiress, open it

  Together, by your leave.–Exactly so:

  The words in which the noble offering’s made,

  Are nobler still, my cousin; and, I own,

  The proudest and most delicate heart alive,

  Distracted from the measure of the gift

  By such a grace in giving, might accept

  Your largesse without thinking any more

  Of the burthen of it, than King Solomon

  Considered, when he wore his holy ring

  Charactered over with the ineffable spell,

  How many carats of fine gold made up

  Its money-value. So, Leigh gives to Leigh–

  Or rather, might have given, observe!–for that’s

  The point we come to. Here’s a proof of gift,

  But here’s no proof, sir, of acceptancy,

  But rather, disproof. Death’s black dust, being blown,

  Infiltrated through every secret fold

  Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate,

  Dried up for ever the fresh-written ink,

  Annulled the gift, disutilised the grace,

  And left these fragments.’

  As I spoke, I tore

  The paper up and down, and down and up

  And crosswise, till it fluttered from my hands,

  As forest-leaves, stripped suddenly and rapt

  By a whirlwind on Valdarno, drop again,

  Drop slow, and strew the melancholy ground

  Before the amazed hills . . why, so, indeed,

  I’m writing like a poet, somewhat large

  In the type of the image,–and exaggerate

  A small thing with a great thing, topping it!–

  But then I’m thinking how his eyes looked . . his

  With what despondent and surprised reproach!

  I think the tears were in them as he looked–

  I think the manly mouth just trembled. Then

  He broke the silence.

  ‘I may ask, perhaps,

  Although no stranger . . only Romney Leigh,

  Which means still less . . than Vincent Carrington . .

  Your plans in going hence, and where you go.

  This cannot be a secret.’

  ‘All my life

  Is open to you, cousin. I go hence

  To London, to the gathering-place of souls,

  To live mine straight out, vocally, in books;

  Harmoniously for others, if indeed

  A woman’s soul, like man’s, be wide enough

  To carry the whole octave (that’s to prove)

  Or, if I fail, still, purely for myself.

  Pray God be with me, Romney.’

  ‘Ah, poor child,

  Who fight against the mother’s ‘tiring hand,

  And choose the headsman’s! May God change his world

  For your sake, sweet, and make it mild as heaven,

  And juster than I have found you!’

  But I paused.

  ‘And you, my cousin?’–

  ‘I,’ he said,–’you ask?

  You care to ask? Well, girls have curious minds,

&nb
sp; And fain would know the end of everything,

  Of cousins, therefore, with the rest.

  For me, Aurora, I’ve my work; you know my work;

  And having missed this year some personal hope,

  I must beware the rather that I miss

  No reasonable duty. While you sing

  Your happy pastorals of the meads and trees,

  Bethink you that I go to impress and prove

  On stifled brains and deafened ears, stunned deaf,

  Crushed dull with grief, that nature sings itself,

  And needs no mediate poet, lute or voice,

  To make it vocal. While you ask of men

  Your audience, I may get their leave perhaps

  For hungry orphans to say audibly

  ‘We’re hungry, see,’–for beaten and bullied wives

  To hold their unweaned babies up in sight,

  Whom orphanage would better; and for all

  To speak and claim their portion . . by no means

  Of the soil, . . but of the sweat in tilling it,–

  Since this is now-a-days turned privilege,

  To have only God’s curse on us, and not man’s

  Such work I have for doing, elbow-deep

  In social problems,–as you tie your rhymes,

  To draw my uses to cohere with needs,

  And bring the uneven world back to its round;

  Or, failing so much, fill up, bridge at least

  To smoother issues, some abysmal cracks

  And feuds of earth, intestine heats have made

  To keep men separate,–using sorry shifts

  Of hospitals, almshouses, infant schools,

  And other practical stuff of partial good,

  You lovers of the beautiful and whole,

  Despise by system.’

  ‘I despise? The scorn

  Is yours, my cousin. Poets become such,

  Through scorning nothing. You decry them for

  The good of beauty, sung and taught by them,

  While they respect your practical partial good

  As being a part of beauty’s self. Adieu!

  When God helps all the workers for his world,

  The singers shall have help of Him, not last.’

  He smiled as men smile when they will not speak

  Because of something bitter in the thought;

  And still I feel his melancholy eyes

  Look judgment on me. It is seven years since:

  I know not if ‘twas pity or ‘twas scorn

  Has made them so far-reaching: judge it ye

  Who have had to do with pity more than love,

  And scorn than hatred. I am used, since then,

  To other ways, from equal men. But so,

  Even so, we let go hands, my cousin and I,