Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Who fits the funerals up, Heaven speed you, sir,)

  And certainly I should be livelier still

  If Lucy here . . sir, Lucy is the corpse . .

  Had worked more properly to buy me wine:

  But Lucy, sir, was always slow at work,

  I shan’t lose much by Lucy. Marian Erle,

  Speak up and show the gentleman the corpse.’

  And then a voice said, ‘Marian Erle.’ She rose;

  It was the hour for angels–there, stood hers!

  She scarcely marvelled to see Romney Leigh.

  As light November snows to empty nests,

  As grass to graves, as moss to mildewed stones,

  As July suns to ruins, through the rents,

  As ministering spirits to mourners, through a loss,

  As Heaven itself to men, through pangs of death,

  He came uncalled wherever grief had come.

  ‘And so,’ said Marian Erle, ‘we meet anew,’

  And added softly, ‘so, we shall not part.’

  He was not angry that she had left the house

  Wherein he placed her. Well–she had feared it might

  Have vexed him. Also, when he found her set

  On keeping, though the dead was out of sight,

  That half-dead, half-live body left behind

  With cankerous heart and flesh,–which took your best

  And cursed you for the little good it did,

  (Could any leave the bedrid wretch alone,

  So joyless, she was thankless even to God,

  Much less to you?) he did not say ‘twas well

  Yet Marian thought he did not take it ill,–

  Since day by day he came, and, every day,

  She felt within his utterance and his eyes

  A closer, tenderer presence of the soul,

  Until at last he said, ‘We shall not part.’

  On that same day, was Marian’s work complete:

  She had smoothed the empty bed, and swept the floor

  Of coffin sawdust, set the chairs anew

  The dead had ended gossip in, and stood

  In that poor room so cold and orderly,

  The door-key in her hand, prepared to go

  As they had, howbeit not their way. He spoke.

  ‘Dear Marian, of one clay God made us all,

  And though men push and poke and paddle in’t

  (As children play at fashioning dirt-pies)

  And call their fancies by the name of facts,

  Assuming difference, lordship, privilege,

  When all’s plain dirt,–they come back to it at last;

  The first grave-digger proves it with a spade,

  And pats all even. Need we wait for this,

  You, Marian, and I, Romney?’

  She at that,

  Looked blindly in his face, as when one looks

  Through drying autumn-rains to find the sky.

  He went on speaking.

  ‘Marian, I being born

  What men call noble, and you, issued from

  The noble people,–though the tyrannous sword

  Which pierced Christ’s heart, has cleft the world in twain

  ‘Twixt class and class, opposing rich to poor,–

  Shall we keep parted? Not so. Let us lean

  And strain together rather, each to each,

  Compress the red lips of this gaping wound,

  As far as two souls can,–ay, lean and league,

  I, from my superabundance,–from your want,

  You,–joining in a protest ‘gainst the wrong

  On both sides!’–

  All the rest, he held her hand

  In speaking, which confused the sense of much;

  Her heart, against his words, beat out so thick

  They might as well be written on the dust

  Where some poor bird, escaping from hawk’s beak,

  Has dropped, and beats its shuddering wings,–the lines

  Are rubbed so,–yet ‘twas something like to this,

  –’That they two, standing at the two extremes

  Of social classes, had received one seal,

  Been dedicate and drawn beyond themselves

  To mercy and ministration,–he, indeed,

  Through what he knew, and she, through what she felt,

  He, by man’s conscience, she, by woman’s heart,

  Relinquishing their several ‘vantage posts

  Of wealthy case and honourable toil,

  To work with God at love. And, since God willed

  That, putting out his hand to touch this ark,

  He found a woman’s hand there, he’d accept

  The sign too, hold the tender fingers fast,

  And say, ‘My fellow-worker, be my wife!’

  She told the tale with simple, rustic turns,–

  Strong leaps of meaning in her sudden eyes

  That took the gaps of any imperfect phrase

  Of the unschooled speaker: I have rather writ

  The thing I understood so, than the thing

  I heard so. And I cannot render right

  Her quick gesticulation, wild yet soft,

  Self-startled from the habitual mood she used,

  Half sad, half languid,–like dumb creatures (now

  A rustling bird, and now a wandering deer,

  Or squirrel against the oak-gloom flashing up

  His sidelong burnished head, in just her way

  Of savage spontaneity,) that stir

  Abruptly the green silence of the woods,

  And make it stranger, holier, more profound;

  As Nature’s general heart confessed itself

  Of life, and then fell backward on repose.

  I kissed the lips that ended.–’So indeed

  He loves you, Marian?’

  ‘Loves me!’ She looked up

  With a child’s wonder when you ask him first

  Who made the sun–a puzzled blush, that grew,

  Then broke off in a rapid radiant smile

  Of sure solution. ‘Loves me! he loves all,–

  And me, of course. He had not asked me else

  To work with him for ever, and be his wife.’

  Her words reproved me. This perhaps was love–

  To have its hands too full of gifts to give,

  For putting out a hand to take a gift;

  To love so much, the perfect round of love

  Includes, in strictly conclusion, the being loved;

  As Eden-dew went up and fell again,

  Enough for watering Eden. Obviously

  She had not thought about his love at all:

  The cataracts of her soul had poured themselves

  And risen self-crowned in rainbow; would she ask

  Who crowned her?–it sufficed that she was crowned.

  With women of my class, ‘tis otherwise:

  We haggle for the small change of our gold,

  And so much love, accord, for so much love,

  Rialto-prices. Are we therefore wrong?

  If marriage be a contract, look to it then,

  Contracting parties should be equal, just;

  Bit if, a simple fealty on one side,

  A mere religion,–right to give, is all,

  And certain brides of Europe duly ask

  To mount the pile, as Indian widows do,

  The spices of their tender youth heaped up,

  The jewels of their gracious virtues worn,

  More gems, more glory,–to consume entire

  For a living husband! as the man’s alive,

  Not dead,–the woman’s duty, by so much,

  Advanced in England, beyond Hindostan.

  I sate there, musing, till she touched my hand

  With hers, as softly as a strange white bird

  She feared to startle in touching. ‘You are kind.

  But are you, peradventure, vexed at heart

  Because your cousin takes me for a wife?

/>   I know I am not worthy–nay, in truth,

  I’m glad on’t, since, for that, he chooses me.

  He likes the poor things of the world the best;

  I would not therefore, if I could, be rich,

  It pleasures him to stoop for buttercups;

  I would not be a rose upon the wall

  A queen might stop at, near the palace-door,

  To say to a courtier, ‘Pluck that rose for me,

  ‘It’s prettier than the rest.’ O Romeny Leigh!

  I’d rather far be trodden by his foot,

  Than like in a great queen’s bosom’

  Out of breath

  She paused.

  ‘Sweet Marian, do you disavow

  The roses with that face?’

  She dropt her head

  As if the wind had caught that flower of her,

  And bent it in the garden,–then looked up

  With grave assurance. ‘Well, you think me bold!

  But so we all are, when we’re praying to God.

  And if I’m bold–yet, lady, credit me,

  That, since I know myself for what I am

  Much fitter for his handmaid than his wife,

  I’ll prove the handmaid and the wife at once,

  Serve tenderly, and love obediently,

  And be a worthier mate, perhaps, than some

  Who are wooed in silk among their learned books;

  While I shall set myself to read his eyes,

  Till such grow plainer to me than the French

  To wisest ladies. Do you think I’ll miss

  A letter, in the spelling of his mind?’

  No more than they do, when they sit and write

  Their flying words with flickering wild-fowl tails,

  Nor ever pause to ask how many t s,

  Should that be a y or i –they know’t so well:

  I’ve seen them writing, when I brought a dress

  And waited,–floating out their soft white hands

  On shining paper. But they’re hard sometimes,

  For all those hands!–we’ve used out many nights,

  And worn the yellow daylight into shreds

  Which flapped and shivered down our aching eyes

  Till night appeared more tolerable, just

  That pretty ladies might look beautiful,

  Who said at last . . ‘You’re lazy in that house!

  ‘You’re slow in sending home the work,–I count

  ‘I’ve waited near an hour for’t.’ Pardon me–

  I do not blame them, madam, nor misprize;

  They are fair and gracious; ay, but not like you,

  Since none but you has Mister Leigh’s own blood

  Both noble and gentle,–and without it . . well,

  They are fair, I said; so fair, it scarce seems strange

  That, flashing out in any looking-glass

  The wonder of their glorious brows and breasts,

  They are charmed so, they forget to look behind

  And mark how pale we’ve grown, we pitiful

  Remainders of the world. And so, perhaps,

  If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife from these,

  She might . . although he’s better than her best,

  And dearly she would know it . . steal a thought

  Which should be all his, an eye-glance from his face,

  To plunge into the mirror opposite,

  In search of her own beauty’s pearl: while I . .

  Ah, dearest lady, serge will outweigh silk

  For winter-wear, when bodies feel a-cold,

  And I’ll be a true wife to your cousin Leigh.’

  Before I answered, he was there himself.

  I think he had been standing in the room,

  And listened probably to half her talk,

  Arrested, turned to stone,–as white as stone.

  Will tender sayings make men look so white?

  He loves her then profoundly.

  ‘You are here,

  Aurora? Here I meet you!’–We clasped hands.

  ‘Even so, dear Romney. Lady Waldemar

  Has sent me in haste to find a cousin of mine

  Who shall be.’

  ‘Lady Waldemar is good.’

  ‘Here’s one, at least, who is good,’ I sighed and touched

  Poor Marian’s happy head, as, doglike, she

  Most passionately patient, waited on,

  A-tremble for her turn of greeting words;

  ‘I’ve sat a full hour with your Marian Erle,

  And learnt the thing by heart,–and, from my heart,

  Am therefore competent to give you thanks

  For such a cousin.’

  ‘You accept at last

  A gift from me, Aurora, without scorn?

  At last I please you?’–How his voice was changed!

  ‘You cannot please a woman against her will,

  And once you vexed me. Shall we speak of that?

  We’ll say, then, you were noble in it all,

  And I not ignorant–let it pass. And now,

  You please me, Romney, when you please yourself;

  So, please you, be fanatical in love,

  And I’m well pleased. Ah, cousin! at the old hall,

  Among the gallery portraits of our Leighs,

  We shall not find a sweeter signory

  Than this pure forehead’s.’

  Not a word he said.

  How arrogant men are!–Even philanthropists,

  Who try to take a wife up in the way

  They put down a subscription-cheque,–if once

  She turns and says, ‘I will not tax you so,

  Most charitable sir,’–feel ill at ease,

  As though she had wronged them somehow. I suppose

  We women should remember what we are,

  And not throw back an obolus inscribed

  With Cæsar’s image, lightly. I resumed.

  ‘It strikes me, some of those sublime Vandykes

  Were not too proud, to make good saints in heaven;

  And, if so, then they’re not too proud to-day

  To bow down (now the ruffs are off their necks)

  And own this good, true, noble Marian, . . yours,

  And mine, I’ll say!–For poets (bear the word)

  Half-poets even, are still whole democrats,–

  Oh, not that we’re disloyal to the high,

  But loyal to the low, and cognisant

  Of the less scrutable majesties. For me,

  I comprehend your choice–I justify

  Your right in choosing.’

  ‘No, no, no’ he sighed,

  With a sort of melancholy impatient scorn,

  As some grown man, who never had a child,

  Puts by some child who plays at being a man;

  –’You did not, do not, cannot comprehend

  My choice, my ends, my motives, nor myself:

  No matter now–we’ll let it pass, you say.

  I thank you for your generous cousinship

  Which helps this present; I accept for her

  Your favourable thoughts. We’re fallen on days,

  We two, who are not poets, when to wed

  Requires less mutual love than common love,

  For two together to bear out at once

  Upon the loveless many. Work in pairs,

  In galley-couplings or in marriage-rings,

  The difference lies in the honour, not the work,–

  And such we’re bound to, I and she. But love,

  (You poets are benighted in this age;

  The hour’s too late for catching even moths,

  You’ve gnats instead,) love!–love’s fool-paradise

  Is out of date, like Adam’s. Set a swan

  To swim the Trenton, rather than true love

  To float its fabulous plumage safely down

  The cataracts of this loud transition-time,–

  Whose roar, for ever, henceforth, in my ears,

&nb
sp; Must keep me deaf to music.’

  There, I turned

  And kissed poor Marian, out of discontent.

  The man had baffled, chafed me, till I flung

  For refuge to the woman,–as, sometimes,

  Impatient of some crowded room’s close smell,

  You throw a window open, and lean out

  To breathe a long breath, in the dewy night,

  And cool your angry forehead. She, at least,

  Was not built up, as walls are, brick by brick;

  Each fancy squared, each feeling ranged by line,

  The very heat of burning youth applied

  To indurate forms and systems! excellent bricks,

  A well-built wall,–which stops you on the road,

  And, into which, you cannot see an inch

  Although you beat your head against it–pshaw!

  ‘Adieu,’ I said, ‘for this time, cousins both:

  And, cousin Romney, pardon me the word,

  Be happy!–oh, in some esoteric sense

  Of course!–I mean no harm in wishing well.

  Adieu, my Marian:–may she come to me,

  Dear Romney, and be married from my house?

  It is not part of your philosophy

  To keep your bird upon the blackthorn?’

  ‘Ay,’

  He answered, ‘but it is:–I take my wife

  Directly from the people,–and she comes,

  As Austria’s daughter to imperial France,

  Betwixt her eagles, blinking not her race,

  From Margaret’s Court at garret-height, to meet

  And wed me at St. James’s, nor put off

  Her gown of serge for that. The things we do,

  We do: we’ll wear no mask, as if we blushed.’

  ‘Dear Romney, you’re the poet,’ I replied,–

  But felt my smile too mournful for my word,

  And turned and went. Ay, masks, I thought,–beware

  Of tragic masks, we tie before the glass,

  Uplifted on the cothurn half a yard

  Above the natural stature! we would play

  Heroic parts to ourselves,–and end, perhaps,

  As impotently as Athenian wives

  Who shrieked in fits at the Eumenides.

  His foot pursued me down the stair. ‘At least,

  You’ll suffer me to walk with you beyond

  These hideous streets, these graves, where men alive,

  Packed close with earthworms, burr unconsciously

  About the plague that slew them; let me go.

  The very women pelt their souls in mud

  At any woman who walks here alone.

  How came you here alone?–you are ignorant.’

  We had a strange and melancholy walk: