Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  On days too cold for raining any more,

  But still with such a face, so much alive,

  I could not choose but take it on my arm

  And stroke the placid patience of its cheeks,–

  Then told my story out, of Romney Leigh,

  How, having lost her, sought her, missed her still,

  He, broken-hearted for himself and her,

  Had drawn the curtains of the world awhile

  As if he had done with morning. There I stopped,

  For when she gasped, and pressed me with her eyes,

  ‘And now . . how is it with him? tell me now,’–

  I felt the shame of compensated grief,

  And chose my words with scruple–slowly stepped

  Upon the slippery stones set here and there

  Across the sliding water. ‘Certainly,

  As evening empties morning into night,

  Another morning takes the evening up

  With healthful, providential interchange;

  And, though he thought still of her–’

  ‘Yes, she knew,

  She understood: she had supposed indeed

  That, as one stops a hole upon a flute,

  At which a new note comes and shapes the tune,

  Excluding her would bring a worthier in,

  And, long ere this, that Lady Waldemar

  He loved so’ . .

  ‘Loved,’ I started,–’loved her so!

  Now tell me’ . .

  ‘I will tell you,’ she replied:

  ‘But since we’re taking oaths, you’ll promise first

  That he in England, he, shall never learn

  In what a dreadful trap his creature here,

  Round whose unworthy neck he had meant to tie

  The honourable ribbon of his name,

  Fell unaware and came to butchery:

  Because,–I know him,–as he takes to heart

  The grief of every stranger, he’s not like

  To banish mine as far as I should choose

  In wishing him most happy. Now he leaves

  To think of me, perverse, who went my way,

  Unkind, and left him,–but if once he knew . .

  Ah, then, the sharp nail of my cruel wrong

  Would fasten me for ever in his sight,

  Like some poor curious bird, through each spread wing

  Nailed high up over a fierce hunter’s fire

  To spoil the dinner of all tenderer folk

  Come in by chance. Nay, since your Marian’s dead,

  You shall not hang her up, but dig a hole

  And bury her in silence! ring no bells.’

  I answered gaily, though my whole voice wept,

  ‘We’ll ring the joy-bells, not the funeral-bells,

  Because we have her back, dead or alive.’

  She never answered that, but shook her head;

  Then low and calm, as one who, safe in heaven,

  Shall tell a story of his lower life,

  Unmoved by shame or anger,–so she spoke.

  She told me she had loved upon her knees

  As others pray, more perfectly absorbed

  In the act and inspiration. She felt his,

  For just his uses, not her own at all,–

  His stool, to sit on or put up his foot,

  His cup, to fill with wine or vinegar,

  Whichever drink might please him at the chance,

  For that should please her always: let him write

  His name upon her . . it seemed natural;

  It was most precious, standing on his shelf,

  To wait until he chose to lift his hand.

  Well, well,–I saw her then, and must have seen

  How bright her life went floating on her love,

  Like wicks the housewives send afloat on oil

  Which feeds them to a flame that lasts the night.

  To do good seemed so much his business,

  That, having done it, she was fain to think,

  Must fill up his capacity for joy.

  At first she never mooted with herself

  If he was happy, since he made her so,

  Or if he loved her, being so much beloved:

  Who thinks of asking if the sun is light,

  Observing that it lightens? Who’s so bold,

  To question God of his felicity?

  Still less. And thus she took for granted first,

  What first of all she should have put to proof,

  And sinned against him so, but only so.

  ‘What could you hope,’ she said, ‘of such as she?

  You take a kid you like, and turn it out

  In some fair garden: though the creature’s fond

  And gentle, it will leap upon the beds

  And break your tulips, bite your tender trees;

  The wonder would be if such innocence

  Spoiled less. A garden is no place for kids.’

  And, by degrees, when he who had chosen her

  Brought in his courteous and benignant friends

  To spend their goodness on her, which she took

  So very gladly, as a part of his,–

  By slow degrees it broke on her slow sense,

  That she, too, in that Eden of delight

  Was out of place, and, like the silly kid,

  Still did most mischief where she meant most love.

  A thought enough to make a woman mad

  (No beast in this, but she may well go mad),

  That, saying, ‘I am thine to love and use;’

  May blow the plague in her protesting breath

  To the very man for whom she claims to die,–

  That, clinging round his neck, she pulls him down

  And drowns him,–and that, lavishing her soul

  She hales perdition on him. ‘So, being mad,’

  Said Marian . .

  ‘Ah–who stirred such thoughts, you ask?

  Whose fault it was, that she should have such thoughts?

  None’s fault, none’s fault. The light comes, and we see:

  But if it were not truly for our eyes,

  There would be nothing seen, for all the light.

  And so with Marian. If she saw at last,

  The sense was in her,–Lady Waldemar

  Had spoken all in vain else.’

  ‘Oh my heart,

  O prophet in my heart,’ I cried aloud,

  ‘Then Lady Waldemar spoke!’

  ‘Did she speak,’

  Mused Marian softly, ‘or did she only sign?

  Or did she put a word into her face

  And look, and so impress you with the word?

  Or leave it in the foldings of her gown,

  Like rosemary smells, a movement will shake out

  When no one’s conscious? who shall say, or guess?

  One thing alone was certain–from the day

  The gracious lady paid a visit first,

  She, Marian, saw things different,–felt distrust

  Of all that sheltering roof of circumstance

  Her hopes were building into with clay nests:

  Her heart was restless, pacing up and down

  And fluttering, like dumb creatures before storms,

  Not knowing wherefore she was ill at ease.’

  ‘And still the lady came,’ said Marian Erle,

  ‘Much oftener than he knew it, Mister Leigh.

  She bade me never tell him she had come,

  She liked to love me better than he knew,

  So very kind was Lady Waldemar:

  And every time she brought with her more light,

  And every light made sorrow clearer . . Well,

  Ah, well! we cannot give her blame for that;

  ‘Twould be the same thing if an angel came,

  Whose right should prove our wrong. And every time

  The lady came, she looked more beautiful

  And spoke more like a flute among green trees,

  Until
at last, as one, whose heart being sad

  On hearing lovely music, suddenly

  Dissolves in weeping, I brake out in tears

  Before her . . asked her counsel . . ‘had I erred

  ‘In being too happy? would she set me straight?

  ‘For she, being wise and good and born above

  ‘The flats I had never climbed from, could perceive

  ‘If such as I, might grow upon the hills;

  ‘And whether such poor herb sufficed to grow,

  ‘For Romney Leigh to break his fast upon’t,–

  ‘Or would he pine on such, or haply starve?’

  She wrapt me in her generous arms at once,

  And let me dream a moment how it feels

  To have a real mother, like some girls:

  But when I looked, her face was younger . . ay,

  Youth’s too bright not to be a little hard,

  And beauty keeps itself still uppermost,

  That’s true!–Though Lady Waldemar was kind,

  She hurt me, hurt, as if the morning-sun

  Should smite us on the eyelids when we sleep,

  And wake us up with headache. Ay, and soon

  Was light enough to make my heart ache too:

  She told me truths I asked for, . . ‘twas my fault, . .

  ‘That Romney could not love me, if he would,

  ‘As men call loving; there are bloods that flow

  ‘Together, like some rivers, and not mix,

  ‘Through contraries of nature. He indeed

  ‘Was set to wed me, to espouse my class,

  ‘Act out a rash opinion,–and, once wed,

  ‘So just a man and gentle, could not choose

  ‘But make my life as smooth as marriage-ring,

  ‘Bespeak me mildly, keep me a cheerful house,

  ‘With servants, brooches, all the flowers I liked,

  ‘And pretty dresses, silk the whole year round’ . .

  At which I stopped her,–’This for me. And now

  ‘For him.’–She murmured,–truth grew difficult;

  She owned, ‘‘Twas plain a man like Romney Leigh

  ‘Required a wife more level to himself.

  ‘If day by day he had to bend his height

  ‘To pick up sympathies, opinions, thoughts,

  ‘And interchange the common talk of life

  ‘Which helps a man to live as well as talk,

  ‘His days were heavily taxed. Who buys a staff

  ‘To fit the hand, that reaches but the knee?

  ‘He’d feel it bitter to be forced to miss

  ‘The perfect joy of married suited pairs,

  ‘Who, bursting through the separating hedge

  ‘Of personal dues with that sweet eglantine

  ‘Of equal love, keep saying, ‘So we think,

  ‘‘It strikes us,–that’s our fancy.’’–When I asked

  If earnest will, devoted love, employed

  In youth like mine, would fail to raise me up,–

  As two strong arms will always raise a child

  To a fruit hung overhead? she sighed and sighed . .

  ‘That could not be,’ she feared. ‘You take a pink,

  ‘You dig about its roots and water it,

  ‘And so improve it to a garden-pink,

  ‘But will not change it to a heliotrope,

  ‘The kind remains. And then, the harder truth–

  ‘This Romney Leigh, so rash to leap a pale,

  ‘So bold for conscience, quick for martyrdom,

  ‘Would suffer steadily and never flinch,

  ‘But suffer surely and keenly, when his class

  ‘Turned shoulder on him for a shameful match,

  ‘And set him up as nine-pin in their talk

  ‘To bowl him down with jestings.’–There, she paused;

  And when I used the pause in doubting that

  We wronged him after all in what we feared–

  ‘Suppose such things should never touch him, more

  ‘In his high conscience, (if the things should be,)

  ‘Than, when the queen sits in an upper room

  ‘The horses in the street can spatter her!’–

  A moment, hope came,–but the lady closed

  That door and nicked the lock and shut it out,

  Observing wisely that ‘the tender heart

  ‘Which made him over-soft to a lower class,

  ‘Could scarcely fail to make him sensitive

  ‘To a higher,–how they thought and what they felt.’

  ‘Alas, alas!’ said Marian, rocking slow

  The pretty baby who was near asleep,

  The eyelids creeping over the blue balls,–

  ‘She made it clear, too clear–I saw the whole!

  And yet who knows if I had seen my way

  Straight out of it, by looking, though ‘twas clear,

  Unless the generous lady, ‘ware of this,

  Had set her own house all a-fire for me,

  To light me forwards? Leaning on my face

  Her heavy agate eyes which crushed my will,

  She told me tenderly, (as when men come

  To a bedside to tell people they must die)

  ‘She knew of knowledge,–aye, of knowledge, knew,

  ‘That Romney Leigh had loved her formerly.

  ‘And she loved him, she might say, now the chance

  ‘Was past . . but that, of course, he never guessed,–

  ‘For something came between them . . something thin

  As a cobweb . . catching every fly of doubt

  ‘To hold it buzzing at the window-pane

  ‘And help to dim the daylight. Ah, man’s pride

  ‘Or woman’s–which is greatest? most averse

  ‘To brushing cobwebs? Well, but she and he

  ‘Remained fast friends; it seemed not more than so,

  ‘Because he had bound his hands and could not stir:

  ‘An honorable man, if somewhat rash;

  ‘And she, not even for Romney, would she spill

  ‘A blot . . as little even as a tear . .

  ‘Upon his marriage-contract,–not to gain

  ‘A better joy for two than came by that!

  ‘For, though I stood between her heart and heaven,

  ‘She loved me wholly.’’

  Did I laugh or curse?

  I think I sat there silent, hearing all,

  Ay, hearing double,–Marian’s tale, at once,

  And Romney’s marriage vow, ‘I’ll keep to THEE,’

  Which means that woman-serpent. Is it time

  For church now?

  ‘Lady Waldemar spoke more,’

  Continued Marian, ‘but, as when a soul

  Will pass out through the sweetness of a song

  Beyond it, voyaging the uphill road,–

  Even so mine wandered from the things I heard,

  To those I suffered. It was afterward

  I shaped the resolution to the act.

  For many hours we talked. What need to talk?

  The fate was clear and close; it touched my eyes;

  But still the generous lady tried to keep

  The case afloat, and would not let it go,

  And argued, struggled upon Marian’s side,

  Which was not Romney’s! though she little knew

  What ugly monster would take up the end,–

  What griping death within the drowning death

  Was ready to complete my sum of death.’

  I thought,–Perhaps he’s sliding now the ring

  Upon that woman’s finger . .

  She went on:

  ‘The lady, failing to prevail her way,

  Upgathered my torn wishes from the ground

  And pieced them with her strong benevolence;

  And, as I thought I could breathe freer air

  Away from England, going without pause,

  Without farewell,–just breaking with a jerk


  The blossomed offshoot from my thorny life,–

  She promised kindly to provide the means,

  With instant passage to the colonies

  And full protection, would commit me straight

  ‘To one who once had been her waiting-maid

  ‘And had the customs of the world, intent

  ‘On changing England for Australia

  ‘Herself, to carry out her fortune so.’

  For which I thanked the Lady Waldemar,

  As men upon their death-beds thank last friends

  Who lay the pillow straight: it is not much,

  And yet ‘tis all of which they are capable,

  This lying smoothly in a bed to die.

  And so, ‘twas fixed;–and so, from day to day,

  The woman named, came in to visit me.’

  Just then the girl stopped speaking,–sate erect,

  And stared at me as if I had been a ghost,

  (Perhaps I looked as white as any ghost),

  With large-eyed horror. ‘Does God make,’ she said,

  ‘All sorts of creatures really, do you think?

  Or is it that the Devil slavers them

  So excellently, that we come to doubt

  Who’s stronger, He who makes, or he who mars?

  I never liked the woman’s face or voice,

  Or ways: it made me blush to look at her;

  It made me tremble if she touched my hand;

  And when she spoke a fondling word I shrank,

  As if one hated me, who had power to hurt;

  And, every time she came, my veins ran cold,

  As somebody were walking on my grave.

  At last I spoke to Lady Waldemar:

  ‘Could such an one be good to trust?’ I asked.

  Whereat the lady stroked my cheek and laughed

  Her silver-laugh (one must be born to laugh,

  To put such music in it) ‘Foolish girl,

  ‘Your scattered wits are gathering wool beyond

  ‘The sheep-walk reaches!–leave the thing to me.’

  And therefore, half in trust, and half in scorn

  That I had heart still for another fear

  In such a safe despair, I left the thing.

  ‘The rest is short. I was obedient:

  I wrote my letter which delivered him

  From Marian to his own prosperities,

  And followed that bad guide. The lady?–hush,–

  I never blame the lady. Ladies who

  Sit high, however willing to look down,

  Will scarce see lower than their dainty feet;

  And Lady Waldemar saw less than I

  With what a Devil’s daughter I went forth

  The swine’s road, headlong over a precipice,

  In such a curl of hell-foam caught and choked,