Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

As I, with all my blots: with all my blots!

  At last then, peerless cousin, we are peers–

  At last we’re even. Ah, you’ve left your height:

  And here upon my level we take hands,

  And here I reach you to forgive you, sweet,

  And that’s a fall, Aurora. Long ago

  You seldom understood me,–but, before,

  I could not blame you. Then you only seemed

  So high above, you could not see below;

  But now I breathe,–but now I pardon!–nay,

  We’re parting. Dearest, men have burnt my house,

  Maligned my motives,–but not one, I swear,

  Has wronged my soul as this Aurora has,

  Who called the Lady Waldemar my wife.’

  ‘Not married to her! yet you said’ . .

  ‘Again?

  Nay, read the lines’ (he held a letter out)

  ‘She sent you through me.’

  By the moonlight there,

  I tore the meaning out with passionate haste

  Much rather than I read it. Thus it ran.

  AURORA LEIGH. NINTH BOOK

  EVEN thus. I pause to write it out at length,

  The letter of the Lady Waldemar.–

  ‘I prayed your cousin Leigh to take you this,

  He says he’ll do it. After years of love,

  Or what is called so,–when a woman frets

  And fools upon one string of a man’s name,

  And fingers it for ever till it breaks,–

  He may perhaps do for her such thing,

  And she accept it without detriment

  Although she should not love him any more

  And I, who do not love him, nor love you,

  Nor you, Aurora,–choose you shall repent

  Your most ungracious letter, and confess,

  Constrained by his convictions, (he’s convinced)

  You’ve wronged me foully. Are you made so ill,

  You woman–to impute such ill to me?

  We both had mothers,–lay in their bosom once.

  Why, after all, I thank you, Aurora Leigh,

  For proving to myself that there are things

  I would not do, . . not for my life . . nor him . .

  Though something I have somewhat overdone,–

  For instance, when I went to see the gods

  One morning, on Olympus, with a step

  That shook the thunder in a certain cloud,

  Committing myself vilely. Could I think,

  The Muse I pulled my heart out from my breast

  To soften, had herself a sort of heart,

  And loved my mortal? He, at least, loved her;

  I heard him say so; ‘twas my recompence,

  When, watching at his bedside fourteen days,

  He broke out ever like a flame at whiles

  Between the heats of fever . . . ‘Is it thou?

  ‘Breathe closer, sweetest mouth!’ and when at last

  The fever gone, the wasted face extinct

  As if it irked him much to know me there,

  He said, ‘‘Twas kind, ‘twas good, ‘twas womanly,’

  (And fifty praises to excuse one love)

  ‘But was the picture safe he had ventured for?’

  And then, half wandering . . ‘I have loved her well,

  Although she could not love me.’–’Say instead,’

  I answered, ‘that she loves you.’–’Twas my turn

  To rave: (I would have married him so changed,

  Although the world had jeered me properly

  For taking up with Cupid at his worst,

  The silver quiver worn off on his hair.)

  ‘No, no,’ he murmured, ‘no, she loves me not;

  ‘Aurora Leigh does better: bring her book

  ‘And read it softly, Lady Waldemar,

  ‘Until I thank your friendship more for that,

  ‘Than even for harder service.’ So I read

  Your book, Aurora, for an hour, that day:

  I kept its pauses, marked its emphasis;

  My voice, empaled upon rhyme’s golden hooks,

  Not once would writhe, nor quiver, nor revolt;

  I read on calmly,–calmly shut it up,

  Observing, ‘There’s some merit in the book.

  ‘And yet the merit in’t is thrown away

  ‘As chances still with women, if we write

  ‘Or write not: we want string to tie our flowers,

  ‘So drop them as we walk, which serves to show

  ‘The way we went. Good morning, Mister Leigh;

  ‘You’ll find another reader the next time.

  ‘A woman who does better than to love,

  ‘I hate; she will do nothing very well:

  ‘Male poets are preferable, tiring less

  ‘And teaching more.’ I triumphed o’er you both,

  And left him.

  ‘ When I saw him afterward,

  I had read your shameful letter, and my heart.

  He came with health recovered, strong though pale

  Lord Howe and he, a courteous pair of friends,

  To say what men dare say to women, when

  Their debtors. But I stopped them with a word;

  And proved I had never trodden such a road,

  To carry so much dirt upon my shoe.

  Then, putting into it something of disdain,

  I asked forsooth his pardon, and my own,

  For having done no better than to love,

  And that, not wisely,–though ‘twas long ago,

  And though ‘twas altered perfectly since then.

  I told him, as I tell you now, Miss Leigh,

  And proved I took some trouble for his sake

  (Because I know he did not love the girl)

  To spoil my hands with working in the stream

  Of that poor bubbling nature,–till she went,

  Consigned to one I trusted, my own maid,

  Who once had lived full five months in my house,

  (Dressed hair superbly) with lavish purse

  To carry to Australia where she had left

  A husband, said she. If the creature lied,

  The mission failed, we all do fail and lie

  More or less–and I’m sorry–which is all

  Expected from us when we fail the most,

  And go to church to own it. What I meant,

  Was just the best for him, and me, and her . .

  Best even for Marian!–I am sorry for’t,

  And very sorry. Yet my creature said

  She saw her stop to speak in Oxford Street

  To one . . no matter! I had sooner cut

  My hand off (though ‘twere kissed the hour before,

  And promised a pearl troth-ring for the next)

  Than crush her silly head with so much wrong.

  Poor child! I would have mended it with gold,

  Until it gleamed like St. Sophia’s dome

  When all the faithful troop to morning prayer:

  But he, he nipped the bud of such a thought

  With that cold Leigh look which I fancied once,

  And broke in, ‘Henceforth she was called his wife.

  ‘His wife required no succour: he was bound

  ‘To Florence, to resume this broken bond:

  ‘Enough so. Both were happy, he and Howe,

  ‘To acquit me of the heaviest charge of all–’

  –At which I shut my tongue against my fly

  And struck him; ‘Would he carry,–he was just,–

  ‘A letter from me to Aurora Leigh,

  ‘And ratify from his authentic mouth

  ‘My answer to her accusation?’–’Yes,

  ‘If such a letter were prepared in time.’

  –He’s just, your cousin,–ay, abhorrently.

  He’d wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.

  And so, cold, courteous, a mere gentleman,

  He bowed, we parted.
/>
  ‘Parted. Face no more,

  Voice no more, love no more! wiped wholly out,

  Like some ill scholar’s scrawl from heart and slate,–

  Ay, spit on and so wiped out utterly

  By some coarse scholar! I have been too coarse,

  Too human. Have we business, in our rank,

  With blood i’ the veins? I will have henceforth none;

  Not even keep the colour at my lip.

  A rose is pink and pretty without blood;

  Why not a woman? When we’ve played in vain

  The game, to adore,–we have resources still,

  And can play on at leisure, being adored:

  Here’s Smith already swearing at my feet

  That I’m the typic She. Away with Smith!–

  Smith smacks of Leigh,–and henceforth, I’ll admit

  No socialist within three crinolines,

  To live and have his being. But for you,

  Though insolent your letter and absurd,

  And though I hate you frankly,–take my Smith!

  For when you have seen this famous marriage tied,

  A most unspotted Erle to a noble Leigh,

  (His love astray on one he should not love)

  Howbeit–beware, you should not want his love,

  You’ll want some comfort. So I leave you Smith;

  Take Smith!–he talks Leigh’s subjects, somewhat worse;

  Adopts a thought of Leigh’s, and dwindles it;

  Goes leagues beyond, to be no inch behind;

  Will mind you of him, as a shoe-string may,

  Of a man: and women, when they are made like you,

  Grow tender to a shoe-string, foot-print even,

  Adore averted shoulders in a glass,

  And memories of what, present once, was loathed.

  And yet, you loathed not Romney,–though you’ve played

  At ‘fox and goose’ about him with your soul:

  Pass over fox, you rub out fox,–ignore

  A feeling, you eradicate it,–the act’s

  Identical.

  ‘I wish you joy, Miss Leigh.

  You’ve made a happy marriage for your friend;

  And all the honour, well-assorted love,

  Derives from you who love him, whom he loves !

  You need not wish me joy to think of it,

  I have so much. Observe, Aurora Leigh,

  Your droop of eyelid is the same as his,

  And, but for you, I might have won his love,

  And, to you, I have shown my naked heart,–

  For which three things I hate, hate, hate you. Hush,

  Suppose a fourth!–I cannot choose but think

  That, with him, I were virtuouser than you

  Without him: so I hate you from this gulph

  And hollow of my soul, which opens out

  To what, except for you, had been my heaven,

  And is instead, a place to curse by! LOVE.’

  An active kind of curse. I stood there cursed–

  Confounded. I had seized and caught the sense

  Of the letter with its twenty stinging snakes,

  In a moment’s sweep of eyesight, and I stood

  Dazed.–’Ah! not married,’

  ‘You mistake,’ he said;

  ‘I’m married. Is not Marian Erle my wife?

  As God sees things, I have a wife and child;

  And I, as I’m a man who honours God,

  Am here to claim my child and wife.’

  I felt it hard to breathe, much less to speak.

  Nor word of mine was needed. Some one else

  Was there for answering. ‘Romney,’ she began,

  ‘My great good angel, Romney.’

  Then at first,

  I knew that Marian Erle was beautiful.

  She stood there, still and pallid as a saint,

  Dilated, like a saint in ecstasy,

  As if the floating moonshine interposed

  Betwixt her foot and the earth, and raised her up

  To float upon it. ‘I had left my child,

  Who sleeps,’ she said, ‘and, having drawn this way,

  I heard you speaking, . . friend!–Confirm me now.

  You take this Marian, such as wicked men

  Have made her, for your honourable wife?’

  The thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic voice.

  He stretched his arms out toward the thrilling voice,

  As if to draw it on to his embrace.

  –’I take her as God made her, and as men

  Must fail to unmake her, as my honoured wife.’

  She never raised her eyes, nor took a step,

  But stood there in her place, and spoke again.

  –’You take this Marian’s child, which is her shame

  In sight of men and women, for your child,

  Of whom you will not ever feel ashamed?’

  The thrilling, tender, proud, pathetic voice.

  He stepped on toward it, still with outstretched arms,

  As if to quench upon his breast that voice.

  –’May God so father me, as I do him

  And so forsake me as I let him feel

  He’s orphaned haply. Here I take the child

  To share my cup, to slumber on my knee,

  To play his loudest gambol at my foot,

  To hold my finger in the public ways,

  Till none shall need inquire, ‘Whose child is this,’

  The gesture saying so tenderly, ‘My own.’’

  She stood a moment silent in her place;

  Then, turning toward me, very slow and cold–

  –’And you,–what say you ?–will you blame me much,

  If, careful for that outcast child of mine

  I catch this hand that’s stretched to me and him

  Nor dare to leave him friendless in the world

  Where men have stoned me ? Have I not the right

  To take so mere an aftermath from life,

  Else found so wholly bare? Or is it wrong

  To let your cousin, for a generous bent,

  Put out his ungloved fingers among briars

  To set a tumbling bird’s-nest somewhat straight?

  You will not tell him, though we’re innocent

  We are not harmless ? . . and that both our harms

  Will stick to his good smooth noble life like burrs,

  Never to drop off though you shake the cloak?

  You’ve been my friend: you will not now be his?

  You’ve known him, that he’s worthy of a friend;

  And you’re his cousin, lady, after all,

  And therefore more than free to take his part,

  Explaining, since the nest is surely spoilt,

  And Marian what you know her,–though a wife,

  The world would hardly understand her case

  Of being just hurt and honest; while for him,

  ‘Twould ever twit him with his bastard child

  And married Harlot. Speak, while yet there’s time:

  You would not stand and let a good man’s dog

  Turn round and rend him, because his, and reared

  Of a generous breed,–and will you let his act,

  Because it’s generous? Speak. I’m bound to you,

  And I’ll be bound by only you, in this.’

  The thrilling, solemn voice, so passionless,

  Sustained, yet low, without a rise or fall,

  As one who had authority to speak,

  And not as Marian.

  I looked up to feel

  If God stood near me and beheld his heaven

  As blue as Aaron’s priestly robe appeared

  To Aaron when he took it off to die.

  And then I spoke–’Accept the gift, I say,

  My sister Marian, and be satisfied.

  The hand that gives has still a soul behind

  Which will not let it quail for having given,

  Though foolish worldlings t
alk they know not what,

  Of what they know not. Romney’s strong enough

  For this: do you be strong to know he’s strong:

  He stands on Right’s side; never flinch for him,

  As if he stood on the other. You’ll be bound

  By me? I am a woman of repute;

  No fly-blow gossip ever specked my life;

  My name is clean and open as this hand,

  Whose glove there’s not a man dares blab about

  As if he had touched it freely:–here’s my hand

  To clasp your hand, my Marian, owned as pure!

  As pure,–I’m a woman and a Leigh!–

  And, as I’m both, I’ll witness to the world

  That Romney Leigh is honoured in his choice,

  Who chooses Marian for his honoured wife.’

  Her broad wild woodland eyes shot out a light;

  Her smile was wonderful for rapture. ‘Thanks,

  My great Aurora.’ Forward then she sprang,

  And dropping her impassioned spaniel head

  With all its brown abandonment of curls

  On Romney’s feet, we heard the kisses drawn

  Through sobs upon the foot, upon the ground–

  ‘O Romney! O my angel! O unchanged,

  Though, since we’ve parted, I have passed the grave!

  But Death itself could only better thee, ,

  Not change thee!–Thee I do not thank at all:

  I but thank God who made thee what thou art,

  So wholly godlike.’

  When he tried in vain

  To raise her to his embrace, escaping thence

  As any leaping fawn from a huntsman’s grasp,

  She bounded off and ‘lighted beyond reach,

  Before him with a staglike majesty

  Of soft, serene defiance,–as she knew

  He could not touch her, so was tolerant

  He had cared to try. She stood there with her great

  Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, and strange sweet smile

  That lived through all, as if one held a light

  Across a waste of waters,–shook her head

  To keep some thoughts down deeper in her soul,–

  Then, white and tranquil as a summer-cloud

  Which, having rained itself to a tardy peace,

  Stands still in heaven as if it ruled the day,

  Spoke out again–’Although, my generous friend,

  Since last we met and parted, you’re unchanged,

  And, having promised faith to Marian Erle,

  Maintain it, as she were not changed at all;

  And though that’s worthy, though that’s full of balm

  To any conscious spirit of a girl

  Who once has loved you as I loved you once,–