Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Indeed, he thinks, said world had better end;

  He sympathises rather with the fish

  Outside, than with the drowned paired beasts within

  Who cannot couple again or multiply:

  And that’s the sort of Noah he is, Lord Howe.

  He never could be anything complete,

  Except a loyal, upright gentleman,

  A liberal landlord, graceful diner-out,

  And entertainer more than hospitable,

  Whom authors dine with and forget the port.

  Whatever he believes, and it is much,

  But no-wise certain . . now here and now there, . .

  He still has sympathies beyond his creed,

  Diverting him from action. In the House,

  No party counts upon him, and all praise:

  All like his books too, (for he has written books)

  Which, good to lie beside a bishop’s chair,

  So oft outreach themselves with jets of fire

  At which the foremost of the progressists

  May warm audacious hands in passing by.

  –Of stature over-tall, lounging for ease;

  Light hair, that seems to carry a wind in it,

  And eyes that, when they look on you, will lean

  Their whole weight half in indolence, and half

  In wishing you unmitigated good,

  Until you know not if to flinch from him

  Or thank him.–’Tis Lord Howe.

  ‘We’re all gone wrong,’

  Said he, ‘and Romney, that dear friend of ours,

  Is no-wise right. There’s one true thing on earth;

  That’s love! He takes it up, and dresses it,

  And acts a play with it, as Hamlet did,

  To show what cruel uncles we have been,

  And how we should be uneasy in our minds,

  While he, Prince Hamlet, weds a pretty maid

  (Who keeps us too long waiting, we’ll confess)

  By symbol, to instruct us formally

  To fill the ditches up ‘twixt class and class,

  And live together in phalansteries.

  What then?–he’s mad, our Hamlet! clap his play,

  And bind him.’

  ‘Ah, Lord Howe, this spectacle

  Pulls stronger at us than the Dane’s. See there!

  The crammed aisles heave and strain and steam with life–

  Dear Heaven, what life!’

  ‘Why , yes,–a poet sees;

  Which makes him different from a common man.

  I, too, see somewhat, though I cannot sing;

  I should have been a poet, only that

  My mother took fright at the ugly world,

  And bore me tongue-tied. If you’ll grant me now

  That Romney gives us a fine actor-piece

  To make us merry on his marriage-morn,–

  The fable’s worse than Hamlet’s, I’ll concede

  The terrible people, old and poor and blind,

  Their eyes eat out with plague and poverty

  From seeing beautiful and cheerful sights,

  We’ll liken to a brutalized King Lear,

  Led out,–by no means to clear scores with wrongs–

  His wrongs are so far back, . . he has forgot;

  All’s past like youth; but just to witness here

  A simple contract,–he, upon his side,

  And Regan with her sister Goneril

  And all the dappled courtiers and court-fools,

  On their side. Not that any of these would say

  They’re sorry, neither. What is done, is done.

  And violence is now turned privilege,

  As cream turns cheese, if buried long enough.

  What could such lovely ladies have to do

  With the old man there, in those ill-odorous rags,

  Except to keep the wind-side of him? Lear

  Is flat and quiet, as a decent grave;

  He does not curse his daughters in the least.

  Be these his daughters? Lear is thinking of

  His porridge chiefly . . is it getting cold

  At Hampstead? will the ale be served in pots?

  Poor Lear, poor daughters? Bravo, Romney’s play?’

  A murmur and a movement drew around;

  A naked whisper touched us. Something wrong!

  What’s wrong! That black crowd, as an overstrained

  Cord, quivered in vibrations, and I saw

  Was that his face I saw? . . his . . Romney Leigh’s.

  Which tossed a sudden horror like a sponge

  Into all eyes,–while himself stood white upon

  The topmost altar-stair, and tried to speak,

  And failed, and lifted higher above his head

  A letter, . . as a man who drowns and gasps.

  ‘My brothers, bear with me! I am very weak.

  I meant but only good. Perhaps I meant

  Too proudly,–and God snatched the circumstance

  And changed it therefore. There’s no marriage–none

  She leaves me,–she departs,–she disappears,–

  I lose her. Yet I never forced her ‘ay’

  To have her ‘no’ so cast into my teeth

  In manner of an accusation, thus.

  My friends, you are all dismissed. Go, eat and drink

  According to the programme,–and farewell !’

  He ended. There was silence in the church;

  We heard a baby sucking in its sleep

  At the farthest end of the aisle. Then spoke a man,

  ‘Now, look to it, coves, that all the beef and drink

  Be not filched from us like the other fun;

  For beer’s spilt easier than a woman is!

  This gentry is not honest with the poor;

  They bring us up, to trick us.’–’Go it, Jim,’

  A woman screamed back,–’I’m a tender soul;

  I never banged a child at two years old

  And drew blood from him, but I sobbed for it

  Next moment,–and I’ve had a plague of seven.

  I’m tender; I’ve no stomach even for beef.

  Until I know about the girl that’s lost,

  That’s killed, mayhap. I did misdoubt, at first,

  The fine lord meant no good by her, or us.

  He, maybe, got the upper hand of her

  By holding up a wedding-ring, and then . .

  A choking finger on her throat, last night,

  And just a clever tale to keep us still,

  As she is, poor lost innocent. ‘Disappear!’

  Who ever disappears except a ghost?

  And who believes a story of a ghost?

  I ask you,–would a girl go off, instead

  Of staying to be married? a fine tale!

  A wicked man, I say, a wicked man!

  For my part I would rather starve on gin

  Than make my dinner on his beef and beer.’–

  At which a cry rose up–’We’ll have our rights.

  We’ll have the girl, the girl! Your ladies there

  Are married safely and smoothly every day,

  And she shall not drop through into a trap

  Because she’s poor and of the people: shame!

  We’ll have no tricks played off by gentlefolks;

  We’ll see her righted.

  Through the rage and roar

  I heard the broken words which Romney flung

  Among the turbulent masses, from the ground

  He held still, with his masterful pale face–

  As huntsmen throw the ration to the pack,

  Who, falling on it headlong, dog on dog

  In heaps of fury, rend it, swallow it up

  With yelling hound jaws,–his indignant words,

  His piteous words, his most pathetic words,

  Whereof I caught the meaning here and there

  By his gesture . . torn in morsels, yelled across,

  And so devoured. From end t
o end, the church

  Rocked round us like the sea in storm, and then

  Broke up like the earth in earthquake. Men cried out

  ‘Police!’–and women stood and shrieked for God,

  Or dropt and swooned; or, like a herd of deer,

  (For whom the black woods suddenly grow alive,

  Unleashing their wild shadows down the wind

  To hunt the creatures into corners, back

  And forward) madly fled, or blindly fell,

  Trod screeching underneath the feet of those

  Who fled and screeched.

  The last sight left to me

  Was Romney’s terrible calm face above

  The tumult!–the last sound was ‘Pull him down!

  Strike–Kill him!’ Stretching my unreasoning arms,

  As men in dreams, who vainly interpose

  ‘Twixt gods and their undoing, with a cry

  I struggled to precipitate myself

  Head-foremost to the rescue of my soul

  In that white face, . . till some one caught me back,

  And so the world went out,–I felt no more.

  What followed, was told after by Lord Howe,

  Who bore me senseless from the strangling crowd

  In church and street, and then returned alone

  To see the tumult quelled. The men of law

  Had fallen as thunder on a roaring fire,

  And made all silent,–while the people’s smoke

  Passed eddying slowly from the emptied aisles.

  Here’s Marian’s letter, which a ragged child

  Brought running, just as Romney at the porch

  Looked out expectant of the bride. He sent

  The letter to me by his friend Lord Howe

  Some two hours after, folded in a sheet

  On which his well-known hand had left a word.

  Here’s Marian’s letter.

  ‘Noble friend, dear saint

  Be patient with me. Never think me vile,

  Who might to-morrow morning be your wife

  But that I loved you more than such a name.

  Farewell, my Romney. Let me write it once,–

  My Romney.

  ‘‘Tis so pretty a coupled word,

  I have no heart to pluck it with a blot.

  We say ‘My God’ sometimes, upon our knees,

  Who is not therefore vexed: so bear with it . .

  And me. I know I’m foolish, weak, and vain;

  Yet most of all I’m angry with myself

  For losing your last footstep on the stair,

  The last time of your coming,–yesterday!

  The very first time I lost step of yours,

  (Its sweetness comes the next to what you speak)

  But yesterday sobs took me by the throat,

  And cut me off from music.

  ‘Mister Leigh,

  You’ll set me down as wrong in many things.

  You’ve praised me, sir, for truth,–and now you’ll learn

  I had not courage to be rightly true.

  I once began to tell you how she came,

  The woman . . and you stared upon the floor

  In one of your fixed thoughts . . which put me out

  For that day. After, some one spoke of me,

  So wisely, and of you, so tenderly,

  Persuading me to silence for your sake . . .

  Well, well! it seems this moment I was wrong

  In keeping back from telling you the truth:

  There might be truth betwixt us two, at least,

  If nothing else. And yet ‘twas dangerous.

  Suppose a real angel came from heaven

  To live with men and women! he’d go mad,

  If no considerate hand should tie a blind

  Across his piercing eyes. ‘Tis thus with you:

  You see us too much in your heavenly light;

  I always thought so, angel,–and indeed

  There’s danger that you beat yourself to death

  Against the edges of this alien world,

  In some divine and fluttering pity.

  ‘Yes

  It would be dreadful for a friend of yours,

  To see all England thrust you out of doors

  And mock you from the windows. You might say,

  Or think (that’s worse), ‘There’s some one in the house

  I miss and love still.’ Dreadful!

  ‘Very kind,

  I pray you mark, was Lady Waldemar.

  She came to see me nine times, rather ten–

  So beautiful, she hurts me like the day

  Let suddenly on sick eyes.

  ‘Most kind of all,

  Your cousin!–ah, most like you! Ere you came

  She kissed me mouth to mouth: I felt her soul

  Dip through her serious lips in holy fire.

  God help me, but it made me arrogant;

  I almost told her that you would not lose

  By taking me to wife: though, ever since,

  I’ve pondered much a certain thing she asked . .

  ‘He love’s you, Marian?’ . . in a sort of mild

  Derisive sadness . . as a mother asks

  Her babe, ‘You’ll touch that star, you think?’

  ‘Farewell!

  I know I never touched it.

  ‘This is worst:

  Babes grow, and lose the hope of things above;

  A silver threepence sets them leaping high–

  But no more stars! mark that.

  ‘I’ve writ all night,

  And told you nothing. God, if I could die,

  And let this letter break off innocent

  Just here! But no–for your sake . .

  ‘Here’s the last:

  I never could be happy as your wife,

  I never could be harmless as your friend,

  I never will look more into your face,

  Till God says, ‘Look!’ I charge you, seek me not,

  Nor vex yourself with lamentable thoughts

  That peradventure I have come to grief;

  Be sure I’m well, I’m merry, I’m at ease,

  But such a long way, long way, long way off,

  I think you’ll find me sooner in my grave;

  And that’s my choice, observe. For what remains,

  An over-generous friend will care for me,

  And keep me happy . . happier . .

  ‘There’s a blot!

  This ink runs thick . . we light girls lightly weep . .

  And keep me happier . . was the thing to say, . .

  Than as your wife I could be!–O, my star,

  My saint, my soul! for surely you’re my soul,

  Through whom God touched me! I am not so lost

  I cannot thank you for the good you did,

  The tears you stopped, which fell down bitterly,

  Like these–the times you made me weep for joy

  At hoping I should learn to write your notes

  And save the tiring of your eyes, at night;

  And most for that sweet thrice you kissed my lips

  And said ‘Dear Marian.’

  ‘‘Twould be hard to read,

  This letter, for a reader half as learn’d,

  But you’ll be sure to master it, in spite

  Of ups and downs. My hand shakes, I am blind,

  I’m poor at writing, at the best,–and yet

  I tried to make my g s the way you showed.

  Farewell–Christ love you.–Say ‘Poor Marian’ now.’

  Poor Marian!–wanton Marian!–was it so,

  Or so? For days, her touching, foolish lines

  We mused on with conjectural fantasy,

  As if some riddle of a summer-cloud

  On which some one tries unlike similitudes

  Of now a spotted Hydra-skin cast off,

  And now a screen of carven ivory

  That shuts the heaven’s conventual secrets up

  From mortals over-bold.
We sought the sense:

  She loved him so perhaps, (such words mean love,)

  That, worked on by some shrewd perfidious tongue,

  (And then I thought of Lady Waldemar)

  She left him, not to hurt him; or perhaps

  She loved one in her class,–or did not love,

  But mused upon her wild bad tramping life,

  Until the free blood fluttered at her heart,

  And black bread eaten by the road-side hedge

  Seemed sweeter than being put to Romney’s school

  Of philanthropical self-sacrifice,

  Irrevocably.–Girls are girls, beside,

  Thought I, and like a wedding by one rule.

  You seldom catch these birds, except with chaff:

  They feel it almost an immoral thing

  To go out and be married in broad day,

  Unless some winning special flattery should

  Excuse them to themselves for’t, . . ‘No one parts

  Her hair with such a silver line as you,

  One moonbeam from the forehead to the crown!’

  Or else . . ‘You bite your lip in such a way,

  It spoils me for the smiling of the rest’–

  And so on. Then a worthless gaud or two,

  To keep for love,–a ribbon for the neck,

  Or some glass pin,–they have their weight with girls.

  And Romney sought her many days and weeks:

  He sifted all the refuse of the town,

  Explored the trains, enquired among the ships,

  And felt the country through from end to end;

  No Marian!–Though I hinted what I knew,–

  A friend of his had reasons of her own

  For throwing back the match–he would not hear:

  The lady had been ailing ever since,

  The shock had harmed her. Something in his tone

  Repressed me; something in me shamed my doubt

  To a sigh, repressed too. He went on to say

  That, putting questions where his Marian lodged,

  He found she had received for visitors,

  Besides himself and Lady Waldemar

  And, that once, me–a dubious woman dressed

  Beyond us both. The rings upon her hands

  Had dazed the children when she threw them pence.

  ‘She wore her bonnet as the queen might hers,

  To show the crown,’ they said,–’a scarlet crown

  Of roses that had never been in bud.’

  When Romney told me that,–for now and then

  He came to tell me how the search advanced,

  His voice dropped: I bent forward for the rest:

  The woman had been with her, it appeared,

  At first from week to week, then day by day,

  And last, ‘twas sure . .

  I looked upon the ground

  To escape the anguish of his eyes, and asked