Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Or as the fiery sap, the touch from God,

  Careering through a tree, dilates the bark,

  And roughs with scale and knob, before it strikes

  The summer foliage out in a green flame–

  So life, in deepening with me, deepened all

  The course I took, the work I did. Indeed,

  The academic law convinced of sin;

  The critics cried out on the falling off

  Regretting the first manner. But I felt

  My heart’s life throbbing in my verse to show

  It lived, it also–certes incomplete,

  Disordered with all Adam in the blood,

  But even its very tumours, warts, and wens,

  Still organised by, and implying life.

  A lady called upon me on such a day.

  She had the low voice of your English dames,

  Unused, it seems, to need rise half a note

  To catch attention,–and their quiet mood,

  As if they lived too high above the earth

  For that to put them out in anything:

  So gentle, because verily so proud;

  So wary and afeared of hurting you,

  By no means that you are not really vile,

  But that they would not touch you with their foot

  To push you to your place; so self-possessed

  Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes

  An effort in their presence to speak truth:

  You know the sort of woman,–brilliant stuff,

  And out of nature. ‘Lady Waldemar.’

  She said her name quite simply, as if it meant

  Not much indeed, but something,–took my hands,

  And smiled, as if her smile could help my case,

  And dropped her eyes on me, and let them melt.

  ‘Is this,’ she said, ‘the Muse?’

  ‘No sibyl even,’

  I answered, ‘since she fails to guess the cause

  Which taxed you with this visit, madam.’

  ‘Good,’

  She said, ‘I like to be sincere at once;

  Perhaps, if I had found a literal Muse,

  The visit might have taxed me. As it is,

  You wear your blue so chiefly in your eyes,

  My fair Aurora, in a frank good way,

  It comforts me entirely for your fame,

  As well as for the trouble of my ascent

  To this Olympus. ‘

  There, a silver laugh

  Ran rippling through her quickened little breaths

  The steep stair somewhat justified.

  ‘But still

  Your ladyship has left me curious why

  You dared the risk of finding the said Muse?’

  ‘Ah,–keep me, notwithstanding, to the point

  Like any pedant. Is the blue in eyes

  As awful as in stockings, after all,

  I wonder, that you’d have my business out

  Before I breathe–exact the epic plunge

  In spite of gasps? Well, naturally you think

  I’ve come here, as the lion-hunters go

  To deserts, to secure you, with a trap

  For exhibition in my drawing-rooms

  On zoologic soirées? Not in the least.

  Roar softly at me; I am frivolous,

  I dare say; I have played at lions, too

  Like other women of my class,–but now

  I meet my lion simply as Androcles

  Met his . . when at his mercy.’

  So, she bent

  Her head, as queens may mock,–then lifting up

  Her eyelids with a real grave queenly look,

  Which ruled, and would not spare, not even herself,

  ‘I think you have a cousin:–Romney Leigh.’

  ‘You bring a word from him? ‘–my eyes leapt up

  To the very height of hers,– ‘a word from him? ‘

  ‘I bring a word about him, actually.

  But first,’–she pressed me with her urgent eyes–

  ‘You do not love him,–you?’

  ‘You’re frank at least

  In putting questions, madam,’ I replied.

  ‘I love my cousin cousinly–no more.’

  ‘I guessed as much. I’m ready to be frank

  In answering also, if you’ll question me,

  Or even with something less. You stand outside,

  You artist women, of the common sex;

  You share not with us, and exceed us so

  Perhaps by what you’re mulcted in, your hearts

  Being starved to make your heads: so run the old

  Traditions of you. I can therefore speak,

  Without the natural shame which creatures feel

  When speaking on their level, to their like.

  There’s many a papist she, would rather die

  Than own to her maid she put a ribbon on

  To catch the indifferent eye of such a man,–

  Who yet would count adulteries on her beads

  At holy Mary’s shrine, and never blush;

  Because the saints are so far off, we lose

  All modesty before them. Thus, to-day.

  ‘Tis I, love Romney Leigh.’

  ‘Forbear,’ I cried.

  ‘If here’s no muse, still less is any saint;

  Nor even a friend, that Lady Waldemar

  Should make confessions’ . .

  ‘That’s unkindly said.

  If no friend, what forbids to make a friend

  To join to our confession ere we have done?

  I love your cousin. If it seems unwise

  To say so, it’s still foolisher (we’re frank)

  To feel so. My first husband left me young,

  And pretty enough, so please you, and rich enough,

  To keep my booth in May-fair with the rest

  To happy issues. There are marquises

  Would serve seven years to call me wife, I know:

  And, after seven, I might consider it,

  For there’s some comfort in a marquisate

  When all’s said,–yes, but after the seven years;

  I, now, love Romney. You put up your lip,

  So like a Leigh! so like him!–Pardon me,

  I am well aware I do not derogate

  In loving Romney Leigh. The name is good,

  The means are excellent; but the man, the man–

  Heaven help us both,–I am near as mad as he

  In loving such an one.’

  She slowly wrung

  Her heavy ringlets till they touched her smile,

  As reasonably sorry for herself;

  And thus continued,–

  ‘Of a truth, Miss Leigh,

  I have not, without a struggle, come to this.

  I took a master in the German tongue,

  I gamed a little, went to Paris twice;

  But, after all, this love! . . . you eat of love,

  And do as vile a thing as if you ate

  Of garlic–which, whatever else you eat,

  Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach

  Reminds you of your onion! Am I coarse?

  Well, love’s coarse, nature’s coarse–ah there’s the rub!

  We fair fine ladies, who park out our lives

  From common sheep-paths, cannot help the crows

  From flying over,–we’re as natural still

  As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly

  In Lyons’ velvet,–we are not, for that,

  Lay-figures, like you! we have hearts within,

  Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts,

  As ready for distracted ends and acts

  As any distressed sempstress of them all

  That Romney groans and toils for. We catch love

  And other fevers, in the vulgar way.

  Love will not be outwitted by our wit,

  Nor outrun by our equipages:–mine

  Persisted, spite of efforts. All my cards

 
; Turned up but Romney Leigh; my German stopped

  At germane Wertherism; my Paris rounds

  Returned me from the Champs Elysées just

  A ghost, and sighing like Dido’s. I came home

  Uncured,–convicted rather to myself

  Of being in love . . in love! That’s coarse you’ll say

  I’m talking garlic.’

  Coldly I replied.

  ‘Apologise for atheism, not love!

  For, me, I do believe in love, and God.

  I know my cousin: Lady Waldemar

  I know not: yet I say as much as this–

  Whoever loves him, let her not excuse

  But cleanse herself; that, loving such a man,

  She may not do it with such unworthy love

  He cannot stoop and take it.’

  ‘That is said

  Austerely, like a youthful prophetess,

  Who knits her brows across her pretty eyes

  To keep them back from following the grey flight

  Of doves between the temple-columns. Dear,

  Be kinder with me. Let us two be friends.

  I’m a mere woman–the more weak perhaps

  Through being so proud; you’re better; as for him,

  He’s best. Indeed he builds his goodness up

  So high, it topples down to the other side,

  And makes a sort of badness; there’s the worst

  I have to say against your cousin’s best!

  And so be mild, Aurora, with my worst,

  For his sake, if not mine.’

  ‘I own myself

  Incredulous of confidence like this

  Availing him or you.’

  ‘I, worthy of him ?

  In your sense I am not so–let it pass.

  And yet I save him if I marry him;

  Let that pass too.’

  ‘Pass, pass, we play police

  Upon my cousin’s life, to indicate

  What may or may not pass?’ I cried. ‘He knows

  what’s worthy of him; the choice remains with him;

  And what he chooses, act or wife, I think

  I shall not call unworthy, I, for one.’

  ‘Tis somewhat rashly said,’ she answered slow.

  Now let’s talk reason, though we talk of love.

  Your cousin Romney Leigh’s a monster! there,

  The word’s out fairly; let me prove the fact.

  We’ll take, say, that most perfect of antiques,

  They call the Genius of the Vatican,

  Which seems too beauteous to endure itself

  In this mixed world, and fasten it for once

  Upon the torso of the Drunken Fawn,

  (Who might limp surely, if he did not dance,)

  Instead of Buonarroti’s mask: what then?

  We show the sort of monster Romney is,

  With god-like virtue and heroic aims

  Subjoined to limping possibilities

  Of mismade human nature. Grant the man

  Twice godlike, twice heroic,–still he limps,

  And here’s the point we come to.’

  ‘Pardon me,

  But, Lady Waldemar, the point’s the thing

  We never come to.’

  ‘Caustic, insolent

  At need! I like you’–(there, she took my hands)

  ‘And now my lioness, help Androcles,

  For all your roaring. Help me! for myself

  I would not say so–but for him. He limps

  So certainly, he’ll fall into the pit

  A week hence,–so I lose him–so he is lost!

  And when he’s fairly married, he a Leigh,

  To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth,

  Starved out in London, till her coarse-grained hands

  Are whiter than her morals,–you, for one,

  May call his choice most worthy.’

  ‘Married! lost!

  He, . . . Romney!’

  ‘Ah, you’re moved at last,’ she said.

  ‘These monsters, set out in the open sun,

  Of course throw monstrous shadows: those who think

  Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who but he?

  And who but you can wonder? He has been mad,

  The whole world knows, since first, a nominal man,

  He soured the proctors, tried the gownsmen’s wits,

  With equal scorn of triangles and wine,

  And took no honours, yet was honourable.

  They’ll tell you he lost count of Homer’s ships

  In Melbourne’s poor-bills, Ashley’s factory bills,–

  Ignored the Aspasia we all dared to praise,

  For other women, dear, we could not name

  Because we’re decent. Well, he had some right

  On his side probably; men always have,

  Who go absurdly wrong. The living boor

  Who brews your ale, exceeds in vital worth

  Dead Caesar who ‘stops bungholes’ in the cask;

  And also, to do good is excellent,

  For persons of his income, even to boors:

  I sympathise with all such things. But he

  Went mad upon them . . madder and more mad,

  From college times to these,–as, going down hill,

  The faster still, the farther! you must know

  Your Leigh by heart; he has sown his black young curls

  With bleaching cares of half a million men

  Already. If you do not starve, or sin,

  You’re nothing to him. Pay the income-tax,

  And break your heart upon’t . . . he’ll scarce be touched;

  But come upon the parish, qualified

  For the parish stocks, and Romney will be there

  To call you brother, sister, or perhaps

  A tenderer name still. Had I any chance

  With Mister Leigh, who am Lady Waldemar,

  And never committed felony?’

  ‘You speak

  Too bitterly,’ I said, ‘for the literal truth.’

  ‘The truth is bitter. Here’s a man who looks

  For ever on the ground! you must be low;

  Or else a pictured ceiling overhead,

  Good painting thrown away. For me, I’ve done

  What women may, (we’re somewhat limited,

  We modest women) but I’ve done my best.

  –How men are perjured when they swear our eyes

  Have meaning in them! they’re just blue or brown,–

  They just can drop their lids a little. In fact,

  Mine did more, for I read half Fourier through,

  Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis Blanc

  With various other of his socialists;

  And if I had been a fathom less in love,

  Had cured myself with gaping. As it was,

  I quoted from them prettily enough,

  Perhaps, to make them sound half rational

  To a saner man than he, whene’er we talked,

  (For which I dodged occasion)–learnt by heart

  His speeches in the Commons and elsewhere

  Upon the social question; heaped reports

  Of wicked women and penitentiaries,

  On all my tables, with a place for Sue;

  And gave my name to swell subscription-lists

  Toward keeping up the sun at nights in heaven,

  And other possible ends. All things I did,

  Except the impossible . . such as wearing gowns

  Provided by the Ten Hours’ movement! there,

  I stopped–we must stop somewhere. He, meanwhile,

  Unmoved as the Indian tortoise ‘neath the world

  Let all that noise go on upon his back;

  He would not disconcert or throw me out;

  ‘Twas well to see a woman of my class

  With such a dawn of conscience. For the heart,

  Made firewood for his sake, and flaming up

  To his very face . . he warmed his feet at it:
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  But deigned to let my carriage stop him short

  In park or street,–he leaning on the door

  With news of the committee which sate last

  On pickpockets at suck.’

  ‘You jest–you jest.’

  ‘As martyrs jest, dear (if you read their lives),

  Upon the axe which kills them. When all’s done

  By me, . . for him–you’ll ask him presently

  The color of my hair–he cannot tell,

  Or answers ‘dark’ at random,–while, be sure,

  He’s absolute on the figure, five or ten,

  Of my last subscription. Is it bearable,

  And I a woman?’

  ‘Is it reparable,

  Though I were a man?’

  ‘I know not. That’s to prove.

  But, first, this shameful marriage?’

  ‘Ay?’ I cried.

  ‘Then really there’s a marriage.’

  ‘Yesterday

  I held him fast upon it. ‘Mister Leigh,’

  Said I, ‘shut up a thing, it makes more noise.

  ‘The boiling town keeps secrets ill; I’ve known

  ‘Yours since last week. Forgive my knowledge so:

  ‘You feel I’m not the woman of the world

  ‘The world thinks; you have borne with me before

  ‘And used me in your noble work, our work,

  ‘And now you shall not cast me off because

  ‘You’re at the difficult point, the join. ‘Tis true

  ‘Even if I can scarce admit the cogency

  ‘Of such a marriage . . where you do not love

  ‘(Except the class), yet marry and throw your name

  ‘Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape

  ‘To future generation! it’s sublime,

  ‘A great example,–a true Genesis

  ‘Of the opening social era. But take heed;

  ‘This virtuous act must have a patent weight,

  ‘Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell,

  ‘Interpret it, and set it in the light,

  ‘And do not muffle it in a winter-cloak

  ‘As a vulgar bit of shame,–as if, at best,

  ‘A Leigh had made a misalliance and blushed

  ‘A Howard should know it.’ Then, I pressed him more–

  ‘He would not choose,’ I said, ‘that even his kin, . .

  ‘Aurora Leigh, even . . should conceive his act

  ‘Less sacrifice, more appetite.’ At which

  He grew so pale, dear, . . to the lips, I knew

  I had touched him. ‘Do you know her,’ he inquired,

  ‘My cousin Aurora?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, and lied

  (But truly we all know you by your books),

  And so I offered to come straight to you,

  Explain the subject, justify the cause,

  And take you with me to Saint Margaret’s Court