Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yet still it will not make her . . if she’s dead,

  And gone away where none can give or take

  In marriage,–able to revive, return

  And wed you,–will, it Romney? Here’s the point;

  O friend, we’ll see it plainer: you and I

  Must never, never, never join hands so.

  Nay, let me say it,–for I said it first

  To God, and placed it, rounded to an oath,

  Far, far above the moon there, at His feet,

  As surely as I wept just now at yours,–

  We never, never, never join hands so.

  And now, be patient with me; do not think

  I’m speaking from a false humility.

  The truth is, I am grown so proud with grief,

  And He has said so often through his nights

  And through his mornings, ‘Weep a little still,

  ‘Thou foolish Marian, because women must,

  ‘But do not blush at all except for sin,’–

  That I, who felt myself unworthy once

  Of virtuous Romney and his high-born race,

  Have come to learn, . . a woman poor or rich,

  Despised or honoured, is a human soul;

  And what her soul is,–that, she is herself,

  Although she should be spit upon of men,

  As is the pavement of the churches here,

  Still good enough to pray in. And, being chaste

  And honest, and inclined to do the right,

  And love the truth, and live my life out green

  And smooth beneath his steps, I should not fear

  To make him, thus, a less uneasy time

  Than many a happier woman. Very proud

  You see me. Pardon, that I set a trap

  To hear a confirmation in your voice . .

  Both yours and yours. It is so good to know

  ‘Twas really God who said the same before:

  For thus it is in heaven, that first God speaks,

  And then his angels. Oh, it does me good,

  It wipes me clean and sweet from devil’s dirt,

  That Romney Leigh should think me worthy still

  Of being his true and honourable wife!

  Henceforth I need not say, on leaving earth,

  I had no glory in it. For the rest,

  The reason’s ready (master, angel, friend,

  Be patient with me) wherefore you and I

  Can never, never, never join hands so.

  I know you’ll not be angry like a man

  (For you are none) when I shall tell the truth,–

  Which is, I do not love you, Romney Leigh,

  I do not love you. Ah well! catch my hands,

  Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes with yours,–

  I swear I do not love him. Did I once?

  ‘Tis said that women have been bruised to death,

  And yet, if once they loved, that love of theirs

  Could never be drained out with all their blood:

  I’ve heard such things and pondered. Did I indeed

  Love once? or did I only worship? Yes,

  Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high

  Above all actual good or hope of good,

  Or fear of evil, all that could be mine,

  I haply set you above love itself,

  And out of reach of these poor woman’s arms,

  Angelic Romney. What was in my thought?

  To be your slave, your help, your toy, your tool.

  To be your love . . I never thought of that.

  To give you love . . still less. I gave you love?

  I think I did not give you anything;

  I was but only yours,–upon my knees,

  All yours, in soul and body, in head and heart,–

  A creature you had taken from the ground,

  Still crumbling through your fingers to your feet

  To join the dust she came from. Did I love,

  Or did I worship? judge, Aurora Leigh!

  But, if indeed I loved, ‘twas long ago,–

  So long! before the sun and moon were made,

  Before the hells were open,–ah, before

  I heard my child cry in the desert night,

  And knew he had no father. It may be,

  I’m not as strong as other women are,

  Who, torn and crushed, are not undone from love.

  It may be, I am colder than the dead,

  Who, being dead, love always. But for me

  Once killed, . . this ghost of Marian loves no more,

  No more . . except the child! . . no more at all.

  I told your cousin, sir, that I was dead;

  And now, she thinks I’ll get up from my grave,

  And wear my chin-cloth for a wedding-veil,

  And glide along the churchyard like a bride,

  While all the dead keep whispering through the withes,

  ‘You would be better in your place with us,

  ‘You pitiful corruption!’ At the thought,

  The damps break out on me like leprosy,

  Although I’m clean. Ay, clean as Marian Erle:

  As Marian Leigh, I know, I were not clean:

  I have not so much life that I should love,

  . . Except the child. Ah God! I could not bear

  To see my darling on a good man’s knees,

  And know by such a look, or such a sigh,

  Or such a silence, that he thought sometimes,

  ‘This child was fathered by some cursed wretch’ . .

  For, Romney,–angels are less tender-wise

  Than God and mothers: even you would think

  What we think never. He is ours, the child;

  And we would sooner vex a soul in heaven

  By coupling with it the dead body’s thought,

  It left behind it in a last month’s grave,

  Than, in my child, see other than . . my child.

  We only, never call him fatherless

  Who has God and his mother. O my babe,

  My pretty, pretty blossom, an ill-wind

  Once blew upon my breast! can any think

  I’d have another,–one called happier,

  A fathered child, with father’s love and race

  That’s worn as bold and open as a smile,

  To vex my darling when he’s asked his name

  And has no answer ? What! a happier child

  Than mine, my best,–who laughed so loud to-night

  He could not sleep for pastime? Nay, I swear

  By life and love, that, if I lived like some,

  And loved like . . some . . ay, loved you, Romney Leigh,

  As some love (eyes that have wept so much, see clear),

  I’ve room for no more children in my arms;

  My kisses are all melted on one mouth;

  I would not push my darling to a stool

  To dandle babies. Here’s a hand, shall keep

  For ever clean without a marriage-ring,

  To tend my boy, until he cease to need

  One steadying finger of it, and desert

  (Not miss) his mother’s lap, to sit with men.

  And when I miss him (not he me) I’ll come

  And say, ‘Now give me some of Romney’s work,

  To help your outcast orphans of the world,

  And comfort grief with grief.’ For you, meantime,

  Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife,

  And open on each other your great souls,–

  I need not farther bless you. If I dared

  But strain and touch her in her upper sphere,

  And say, ‘Come down to Romney–pay my debt!

  I should be joyful with the stream of joy

  Sent through me. But the moon is in my face . .

  I dare not,–though I guess the name he loves;

  I’m learned with my studies of old days,

  Remembering how he crushed his under-lip

  When some one came and spoke, or did not come.
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  Aurora, I could touch her with my hand,

  And fly, because I dare not.’

  She was gone.

  He smiled so sternly that I spoke in haste.

  ‘Forgive her–she sees clearly for herself:

  Her instinct’s holy.’

  ‘I forgive?’ he said,

  ‘I only marvel how she sees so sure,

  While others’ . . there he paused,–then hoarse, abrupt,–

  ‘Aurora, you forgive us, her and me?

  For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal child,

  If once corrected by the thing I know,

  Had been unspoken; since she loves you well,

  Has leave to love you:–while for me, alas,

  If once or twice I let my heart escape

  This night, . . remember, where hearts slip and fall

  They break beside: we’re parting,–parting,–ah,

  You do not love, that you should surely know

  What that word means. Forgive, be tolerant;

  It had not been, but that I felt myself

  So safe in impuissance and despair,

  I could not hurt you though I tossed my arms

  And sighed my soul out. The most utter wretch

  Will choose his postures when he comes to die,

  However in the presence of a queen:

  And you’ll forgive me some unseemly spasms

  Which meant no more than dying. Do you think

  I had ever come here in my perfect mind,

  Unless I had come here, in my settled mind,

  Bound Marian’s, bound to keep the bond, and give

  My name, my house, my hand, the things I could,

  To Marian! For even I could give as much;

  Even I, affronting her exalted soul

  By a supposition that she wanted these,

  Could act the husband’s coat and hat set up

  To creak i’ the wind and drive the world-crows off

  From pecking in her garden. Straw can fill

  A hole to keep out vermin. Now, at last,

  I own heaven’s angels round her life suffice

  To fight the rats of our society,

  Without this Romney: I can see it at last;

  And here is ended my pretension which

  The most pretended. Over-proud of course,

  Even so!–but not so stupid . . blind . . that I,

  Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world

  Has set to meditate mistaken work,

  My dreary face against a dim blank wall

  Throughout man’s natural lifetime,–could pretend

  Or wish . . O love, I have loved you! O my soul,

  I have lost you!–but I swear by all yourself,

  And all you might have been to me these years,

  If that June-morning had not failed my hope,–

  I’m not so bestial, to regret that day

  This night,–this night, which still to you is fair;

  Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest

  Those stars above us, which I cannot see . . . ‘

  ‘You cannot.’ . .

  ‘ That if Heaven itself should stoop,

  Remit the lots, and give me another chance,

  I’d say, ‘No other!’–I’d record my blank.

  Aurora never should be wife of mine.’

  ‘Not see the stars?’

  ‘‘Tis worse still, not to see

  To find your hand, although we’re parting, dear.

  A moment let me hold it, ere we part:

  And understand my last words–these at last!

  I would not have you thinking, when I’m gone,

  That Romney dared to hanker for your love,

  In thought or vision, if attainable,

  (Which certainly for me it never was)

  And wish to use it for a dog to-day,

  To help the blind man stumbling. God forbid!

  And now I know he held you in his palm,

  And kept you open-eyed to all my faults,

  To save you at last from such a dreary end.

  Believe me, dear, that if I had known, like Him,

  What loss was coming on me, I had done

  As well in this as He has.–Farewell, you,

  Who are still my light,–farewell! How late it is:

  I know that, now: you’ve been too patient, sweet.

  I will but blow my whistle toward the lane,

  And some one comes . . the same who brought me here.

  Get in–Good night.’

  ‘A moment. Heavenly Christ!

  A moment. Speak once, Romney. ‘Tis not true.

  I hold your hands, I look into your face–

  You see me?’

  ‘No more than the blessed stars.

  Be blessed too, Aurora. Ah, my sweet,

  You tremble. Tender-hearted! Do you mind

  Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat old John,

  And let the mice out slyly from his traps,

  Until he marvelled at the soul in mice

  Which took the cheese and left the snare? The same

  Dear soft heart always! ‘Twas for this I grieved

  Howe’s letter never reached you. Ah, you had heard

  Of illness,–not the issue . . not the extent:

  My life long sick with tossings up and down;

  The sudden revulsion in the blazing house,–

  The strain and struggle both of body and soul,

  Which left fire running in my veins, for blood:

  Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the falling beam,

  Which nicked me on the forehead as I passed

  The gallery door with a burden. Say heaven’s bolt,

  Not William Erle’s; not Marian’s father’s; tramp

  And poacher, whom I found for what he was,

  And, eager for her sake to rescue him,

  Forth swept from the open highway of the world,

  Road-dust and all,–till, like a woodland boar

  Most naturally unwilling to be tamed,

  He notched me with his tooth. But not a word

  To Marian! and I do not think, besides,

  He turned the tilting of the beam my way,–

  And if he laughed, as many swear, poor wretch,

  Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so deep.

  We’ll hope his next laugh may be merrier,

  In a better cause.’

  ‘Blind, Romney ?’

  ‘ Ah, my friend,

  You’ll learn to say it in a cheerful voice.

  I, too, at first desponded. To be blind,

  Turned out of nature, mulcted as a man,

  Refused the daily largesse of the sun

  To humble creatures! When the fever’s heat

  Dropped from me, as the flame did from my house,

  And left me ruined like it, stripped of all

  The hues and shapes of aspectable life,

  A mere bare blind stone in the blaze of day,

  A man, upon the outside of the earth,

  As dark as ten feet under, in the grave,–

  Why that seemed hard.’

  ‘No hope?’

  ‘A tear! you weep,

  Divine Aurora? tears upon my hand!

  I’ve seen you weeping for a mouse, a bird,–

  But, weep for me, Aurora? Yes, there’s hope.

  Not hope of sight,–I could be learned, dear,

  And tell you in what Greek and Latin name

  The visual nerve is withered to the root,

  Though the outer eyes appear indifferent,

  Unspotted in their crystals. But there’s hope.

  The spirit, from behind this dethroned sense,

  Sees, waits in patience till the walls break up

  From which the bas-relief and fresco have dropt.

  There’s hope. The man here, once so arrogant

  And restless, so ambitious, for his part,

  Of dealing with statistically packed

 
Disorders, (from a pattern on his nail,)

  And packing such things quite another way,–

  Is now contented. From his personal loss

  He has come to hope for others when they lose,

  And wear a gladder faith in what we gain . .

  Through bitter experience, compensation sweet,

  Like that tear, sweetest. I am quiet now,–

  As tender surely for the suffering world,

  But quiet,–sitting at the wall to learn,

  Content, henceforth, to do the thing I can:

  For, though as powerless, said I, as a stone,

  A stone can still give shelter to a worm,

  And it is worth while being a stone for that:

  There’s hope, Aurora.’

  ‘ Is there hope for me?

  For me?–and is there room beneath the stone

  For such a worm?–And if I came and said . .

  What all this weeping scarce will let me say,

  And yet what women cannot say at all,

  But weeping bitterly . . (the pride keeps up,

  Until the heart breaks under it) . . I love,–

  I love you, Romney’ . . .

  ‘Silence!’ he exclaimed,

  ‘A woman’s pity sometimes makes her mad.

  A man’s distraction must not cheat his soul

  To take advantage of it. Yet, ‘tis hard–

  Farewell, Aurora.’

  ‘But I love you, sir:

  And when a woman says she loves a man,

  The man must hear her, though he love her not.

  Which . . hush! . . he has leave to answer in his turn;

  She will not surely blame him. As for me,

  You call it pity,–think I’m generous?

  ‘Twere somewhat easier, for a woman proud,

  As I am, and I’m very vilely proud,

  To let it pass as such, and press on you

  Love born of pity,–seeing that excellent loves

  Are born so, often, nor the quicklier die,–

  And this would set me higher by the head

  Than now I stand. No matter: let the truth

  Stand high: Aurora must be humble: no,

  My love’s not pity merely. Obviously

  I’m not a generous woman, never was.

  Or else, of old, I had not looked so near

  To weights and measures, grudging you the power

  To give, as first I scorned your power to judge

  For me, Aurora: I would have no gifts

  Forsooth, but God’s,–and I would use them, too,

  According to my pleasure and my choice,

  As He and I were equals,–you, below,

  Excluded from that level of interchange

  Admitting benefaction. You were wrong

  In much? you said so. I was wrong in most.

  Oh, most! You only thought to rescue men

  By half-means, half-way, seeing half their wants,