Aurora Leigh · Part 4

Some tears fell down my cheeks, and then I smiled, As those smile who have no face in the world To smile back to them. I had lost a friend In Romney Leigh; the thing was sure—a friend, Who had looked at me most gently now and then, And spoken of my favourite books ... ‘our books’ ... With such a voice! Well, voice and look were now More utterly shut out from me, I felt, Than even my father’s. Romney now was turned To a benefactor, to a generous man, Who had tied himself to marry ... me, instead Of such a woman, with low timorous lids He lifted with a sudden word one day, And left, perhaps, for my sake.—Ah, self-tied By a contract,—male Iphigenia, bound At a fatal Aulis, for the winds to change, (But loose him—they’ll not change); he well might seem A little cold and dominant in love! He had a right to be dogmatical, This poor, good Romney. Love, to him, was made A simple law-clause. If I married him, I would not dare to call my soul my own, Which so he had bought and paid for: every thought And every heart-beat down there in the bill,— Not one found honestly deductible From any use that pleased him! He might cut My body into coins to give away Among his other paupers; change my sons, While I stood dumb as Griseld, for black babes Or piteous foundlings; might unquestioned set My right hand teaching in the Ragged Schools, My left hand washing in the Public Baths, What time my angel of the Ideal stretched Both his to me in vain! I could not claim The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to squeal, And take so much as pity, from myself.

Farewell, good Romney! if I loved you even, I could but ill afford to let you be So generous to me. Farewell, friend, since friend Betwixt us two, forsooth, must be a word So heavily overladen. And, since help Must come to me from those who love me not, Farewell, all helpers—I must help myself, And am alone from henceforth.—Then I stooped, And lifted the soiled garland from the ground, And set it on my head as bitterly As when the Spanish king did crown the bones Of his dead love. So be it. I preserve That crown still,—in the drawer there! ’twas the first; The rest are like it;—those Olympian crowns, We run for, till we lose sight of the sun In the dust of the racing chariots! After that, Before the evening fell, I had a note Which ran,—‘Aurora, sweet Chaldean, you read My meaning backward like your eastern books, While I am from the west, dear. Read me now A little plainer. Did you hate me quite But yesterday? I loved you for my part; I love you. If I spoke untenderly This morning, my beloved, pardon it; And comprehend me that I loved you so, I set you on the level of my soul, And overwashed you with the bitter brine Of some habitual thoughts. Henceforth, my flower, Be planted out of reach of any such, And lean the side you please, with all your leaves! Write woman’s verses and dream woman’s dreams; But let me feel your perfume in my home, To make my sabbath after working-days; Bloom out your youth beside me,—be my wife.’

I wrote in answer—‘We, Chaldeans, discern Still farther than we read. I know your heart, And shut it like the holy book it is, Reserved for mild-eyed saints to pore upon Betwixt their prayers at vespers. Well, you’re right, I did not surely hate you yesterday; And yet I do not love you enough to-day To wed you, cousin Romney. Take this word, And let it stop you as a generous man From speaking farther. You may tease, indeed, And blow about my feelings, or my leaves,— And here’s my aunt will help you with east winds, And break a stalk, perhaps, tormenting me; But certain flowers grow near as deep as trees, And, cousin, you’ll not move my root, not you, With all your confluent storms. Then let me grow Within my wayside hedge, and pass your way! This flower has never as much to say to you As the antique tomb which said to travellers, ‘Pause,’ ‘Siste, viator.’ Ending thus, I signed.

The next week passed in silence, so the next, And several after: Romney did not come, Nor my aunt chide me. I lived on and on, As if my heart were kept beneath a glass, And everybody stood, all eyes and ears, To see and hear it tick. I could not sit, Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it down, Not sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch And a sigh with it, but I felt her looks Still cleaving to me, like the sucking asp To Cleopatra’s breast, persistently Through the intermittent pantings. Being observed, When observation is not sympathy, Is just being tortured. If she said a word, A ‘thank you,’ or an ‘if it please you, dear,’ She meant a commination, or, at best, An exorcism against the devildom Which plainly held me. So with all the house. Susannah could not stand and twist my hair, Without such glancing at the looking-glass To see my face there, that she missed the plait: And John,—I never sent my plate for soup, Or did not send it, but the foolish John Resolved the problem, ’twixt his napkined thumbs, Of what was signified by taking soup Or choosing mackerel. Neighbours, who dropped in On morning visits, feeling a joint wrong, Smiled admonition, sate uneasily, And talked with measured, emphasised reserve, Of parish news, like doctors to the sick, When not called in,—as if, with leave to speak, They might say something. Nay, the very dog Would watch me from his sun-patch on the floor, In alternation with the large black fly Not yet in reach of snapping. So I lived.

A Roman died so; smeared with honey, teased By insects, stared to torture by the noon: And many patient souls ’neath English roofs Have died like Romans. I, in looking back, Wish only, now, I had borne the plague of all With meeker spirits than were rife in Rome.

For, on the sixth week, the dead sea broke up, Dashed suddenly through beneath the heel of Him Who stands upon the sea and earth, and swears Time shall be nevermore. The clock struck nine That morning, too,—no lark was out of tune; The hidden farms among the hills, breathed straight Their smoke toward heaven; the lime-tree scarcely stirred Beneath the blue weight of the cloudless sky, Though still the July air came floating through The woodbine at my window, in and out, With touches of the out-door country-news For a bending forehead. There I sate, and wished That morning-truce of God would last till eve, Or longer. ‘Sleep,’ I thought, ‘late sleepers,—sleep, And spare me yet, the burden of your eyes.’

Then, suddenly, a single ghastly shriek Tore upwards from the bottom of the house. Like one who wakens in a grave and shrieks, The still house seemed to shriek itself alive, And shudder through its passages and stairs With slam of doors and clash of bells.—I sprang, I stood up in the middle of the room, And there confronted at my chamber-door, A white face,—shivering, ineffectual lips.

‘Come, come,’ they tried to utter, and I went; As if a ghost had drawn me at the point Of a fiery finger through the uneven dark, I went with reeling footsteps down the stair, Nor asked a question. There she sate, my aunt,— Bolt upright in the chair beside her bed, Whose pillow had no dint! she had used no bed For that night’s sleeping ... yet slept well. My God, The dumb derision of that grey, peaked face Concluded something grave against the sun, Which filled the chamber with its July burst When Susan drew the curtains, ignorant Of who sate open-eyed behind her. There, She sate ... it sate ... we said ‘she’ yesterday ... And held a letter with unbroken seal, As Susan gave it to her hand last night: All night she had held it. If its news referred To duchies or to dunghills, not an inch She’d budge, ’twas obvious, for such worthless odds: Nor, though the stars were suns, and overburned Their spheric limitations, swallowing up Like wax the azure spaces, could they force Those open eyes to wink once. What last sight Had left them blank and flat so,—drawing out The faculty of vision from the roots, As nothing more, worth seeing, remained behind?

Were those the eyes that watched me, worried me? That dogged me up and down the hours and days, A beaten, breathless, miserable soul? And did I pray, a half hour back, but so, To escape the burden of those eyes ... those eyes? ‘Sleep late’ I said.— Why now, indeed, they sleep. God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers, And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face, A gauntlet with a gift in’t. Every wish Is like a prayer ... with God. I had my wish,— To read and meditate the thing I would, To fashion all my life upon my thought, And marry, or not marry. Henceforth, none Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper me. Full ground-room, in this desert newly made, For Babylon or Balbec,—when the breath, Just choked with sand, returns, for building towns! The heir came over on the funeral day, And we two cousins met before the dead, With two pale faces. Was it death or life That moved us? When the will was read and done, The official guest and witnesses withdrawn, We rose up in a silence almost hard, And looked at one another. Then I said, ‘Farewell, my cousin.’ But he touched, just touched My hatstrings tied for going, (at the door The carriage stood to take me) and said low, His voice a little unsteady through his smile, ‘Siste, viator.’ ‘Is there time,’ I asked, ‘In these last days of railroads, to stop short Like Cæsar’s chariot (weighing half a ton) On the Appian road, for morals?’ ‘There is time,’ He answered grave, ‘for necessary words, Inclusive, trust me, of no epitaph On man or act, my cousin. We have read A will, which gives you all the personal goods And funded monies of your aunt.’ ‘I thank Her memory for it. With three hundred pounds We buy in England even, clear standing-room To stand and work in. Only two hours since, I fancied I was poor.’ ‘And, cousin, still You’re richer than you fancy. The will says, Three hundred pounds, and any other sum Of which the said testatrix dies possessed. I say she died possessed of other sums.’

‘Dear Romney, need we chronicle the pence? I’m richer than I thought—that’s evident. Enough so.’ ‘Listen rather. You’ve to do With business and a cousin,’ he resumed, ‘And both, I fear, need patience. Here’s the fact. The other sum (there is another sum, Unspecified in any will which dates After possession, yet bequeathed as much And clearly as those said three hundred pounds) Is thirty thousand. You will have it paid When?... where? My duty troubles you with words.’

He struck the iron when the bar was hot; No wonder if my eyes sent out some sparks. ‘Pause there! I thank you. You are delicate In glosing gifts;—but I, who share your blood, Am rather made for giving, like yourself, Than taking, like your pensioners. Farewell.’

He stopped me with a gesture of calm pride. ‘A Leigh,’ he said, ‘gives largesse and gives love, But gloses neither: if a Leigh could glose, He would not do it, moreover, to a Leigh, With blood trained up along nine centuries To hound and hate a lie, from eyes like yours. And now we’ll make the rest as clear; your aunt Possessed these monies.’ ‘You will make it clear, My cousin, as the honour of us both, Or one of us speaks vainly—that’s not I. My aunt possessed this sum,—inherited From whom, and when? bring documents, prove dates.’

‘Why now indeed you throw your bonnet off, As if you had time left for a logarithm! The faith’s the want. Dear cousin, give me faith, And you shall walk this road with silken shoes, As clean as any lady of our house Supposed the proudest. Oh, I comprehend The whole position from your point of sight. I oust you from your father’s halls and lands, And make you poor by getting rich—that’s law; Considering which, in common circumstance, You would not scruple to accept from me Some compensation, some sufficiency Of income—that were justice; but, alas, I love you ... that’s mere nature!—you reject My love ... that’s nature also;—and at once, You cannot, from a suitor disallowed, A hand thrown back as mine is, into yours Receive a doit, a farthing, ... not for the world! That’s etiquette with women, obviously Exceeding claim of nature, law, and right, Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see, The case as you conceive it,—leave you room To sweep your ample skirts of womanhood; While, standing humbly squeezed against the wall, I own myself excluded from being just, Restrained from paying indubitable debts, Because denied from giving you my soul— That’s my misfortune!—I submit to it As if, in some more reasonable age, ’Twould not be less inevitable. Enough. You’ll trust me, cousin, as a gentleman, To keep your honour, as you count it, pure,— Your scruples (just as if I thought them wise) Safe and inviolate from gifts of mine.’

I answered mild but earnest. ‘I believe In no one’s honour which another keeps, Nor man’s nor woman’s. As I keep, myself, My truth and my religion, I depute No father, though I had one this side death, Nor brother, though I had twenty, much less you, Though twice my cousin, and once Romney Leigh, To keep my honour pure. You face, to-day, A man who wants instruction, mark me, not A woman who wants protection. As to a man, Show manhood, speak out plainly, be precise With facts and dates. My aunt inherited This sum, you say—’ ‘I said she died possessed Of this, dear cousin.’ ‘Not by heritage. Thank you: we’re getting to the facts at last. Perhaps she played at commerce with a ship Which came in heavy with Australian gold? Or touched a lottery with her finger-end, Which tumbled on a sudden into her lap Some old Rhine tower or principality? Perhaps she had to do with a marine Sub-transatlantic railroad, which pre-pays As well as pre-supposes? or perhaps Some stale ancestral debt was after-paid By a hundred years, and took her by surprise?— You shake your head my cousin; I guess ill.’

‘You need not guess, Aurora, nor deride,— The truth is not afraid of hurting you. You’ll find no cause, in all your scruples, why Your aunt should cavil at a deed of gift ’Twixt her and me.’ ‘I thought so—ah! a gift.’

‘You naturally thought so,’ he resumed. ‘A very natural gift.’ ‘A gift, a gift! Her individual life being stranded high Above all want, approaching opulence, Too haughty was she to accept a gift Without some ultimate aim: ah, ah, I see,— A gift intended plainly for her heirs, And so accepted ... if accepted ... ah, Indeed that might be; I am snared perhaps, Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon you, If thus you have caught me with a cruel springe?’

He answered gently, ‘Need you tremble and pant Like a netted lioness? is’t my fault, mine, That you’re a grand wild creature of the woods, And hate the stall built for you? Any way, Though triply netted, need you glare at me? I do not hold the cords of such a net; You’re free from me, Aurora!’ ‘Now may God Deliver me from this strait! This gift of yours Was tendered ... when? accepted ... when?’ I asked. ‘A month ... a fortnight since? Six weeks ago It was not tendered. By a word she dropped, I know it was not tendered nor received. When was it? bring your dates.’ ‘What matters when? A half-hour ere she died, or a half-year, Secured the gift, maintains the heritage Inviolable with law. As easy pluck The golden stars from heaven’s embroidered stole, To pin them on the grey side of this earth, As make you poor again, thank God.’ ‘Not poor Nor clean again from henceforth, you thank God? Well, sir—I ask you ... I insist at need, ... Vouchsafe the special date, the special date.’

‘The day before her death-day,’ he replied, ‘The gift was in her hands. We’ll find that deed, And certify that date to you.’ As one Who has climbed a mountain-height and carried up His own heart climbing, panting in his throat With the toil of the ascent, takes breath at last, Looks back in triumph—so I stood and looked: ‘Dear cousin Romney, we have reached the top Of this steep question, and may rest, I think. But first,—I pray you pardon, that the shock And surge of natural feeling and event Had made me oblivious of acquainting you That this, this letter ... unread, mark,—still sealed, Was found enfolded in the poor dead hand: That spirit of hers had gone beyond the address, Which could not find her though you wrote it clear,— I know your writing, Romney,—recognise The open-hearted A, the liberal sweep Of the G. Now listen,—let us understand; You will not find that famous deed of gift, Unless you find it in the letter here, Which, not being mine, I give you back.—Refuse To take the letter? well then—you and I, As writer and as heiress, open it Together, by your leave.—Exactly so: The words in which the noble offering’s made, Are nobler still, my cousin; and, I own, The proudest and most delicate heart alive, Distracted from the measure of the gift By such a grace in giving, might accept Your largesse without thinking any more Of the burthen of it, than King Solomon Considered, when he wore his holy ring Charáctered over with the ineffable spell, How many carats of fine gold made up Its money-value. So, Leigh gives to Leigh— Or rather, might have given, observe!—for that’s The point we come to. Here’s a proof of gift, But here’s no proof, sir, of acceptancy, But rather, disproof. Death’s black dust, being blown, Infiltrated through every secret fold Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate, Dried up for ever the fresh-written ink, Annulled the gift, disutilised the grace, And left these fragments.’ As I spoke, I tore The paper up and down, and down and up And crosswise, till it fluttered from my hands, As forest-leaves, stripped suddenly and rapt By a whirlwind on Valdarno, drop again, Drop slow, and strew the melancholy ground Before the amazèd hills ... why, so, indeed, I’m writing like a poet, somewhat large In the type of the image,—and exaggerate A small thing with a great thing, topping it!— But then I’m thinking how his eyes looked ... his, With what despondent and surprised reproach! I think the tears were in them, as he looked— I think the manly mouth just trembled. Then He broke the silence. ‘I may ask, perhaps, Although no stranger ... only Romney Leigh, Which means still less ... than Vincent Carrington ... Your plans in going hence, and where you go. This cannot be a secret.’ ‘All my life Is open to you, cousin. I go hence To London, to the gathering-place of souls, To live mine straight out, vocally, in books; Harmoniously for others, if indeed A woman’s soul, like man’s, be wide enough To carry the whole octave (that’s to prove) Or, if I fail, still, purely for myself. Pray God be with me, Romney.’ ‘Ah, poor child, Who fight against the mother’s ‘tiring hand, And choose the headsman’s! May God change his world For your sake, sweet, and make it mild as heaven, And juster than I have found you!’ But I paused. ‘And you, my cousin?’— ‘I,’ he said,—‘you ask? You care to ask? Well, girls have curious minds, And fain would know the end of everything, Of cousins, therefore, with the rest. For me, Aurora, I’ve my work; you know my work; And, having missed this year some personal hope, I must beware the rather that I miss No reasonable duty. While you sing Your happy pastorals of the meads and trees, Bethink you that I go to impress and prove On stifled brains and deafened ears, stunned deaf, Crushed dull with grief, that nature sings itself, And needs no mediate poet, lute or voice, To make it vocal. While you ask of men Your audience, I may get their leave perhaps For hungry orphans to say audibly ‘We’re hungry, see,’—for beaten and bullied wives To hold their unweaned babies up in sight, Whom orphanage would better; and for all To speak and claim their portion ... by no means Of the soil, ... but of the sweat in tilling it,— Since this is now-a-days turned privilege, To have only God’s curse on us, and not man’s. Such work I have for doing, elbow-deep In social problems,—as you tie your rhymes, To draw my uses to cohere with needs, And bring the uneven world back to its round; Or, failing so much, fill up, bridge at least To smoother issues, some abysmal cracks And feuds of earth, intestine heats have made To keep men separate,—using sorry shifts Of hospitals, almshouses, infant schools, And other practical stuff of partial good, You lovers of the beautiful and whole, Despise by system.’ ‘I despise? The scorn Is yours, my cousin. Poets become such, Through scorning nothing. You decry them for The good of beauty, sung and taught by them, While they respect your practical partial good As being a part of beauty’s self. Adieu! When God helps all the workers for his world, The singers shall have help of Him, not last.’

He smiled as men smile when they will not speak Because of something bitter in the thought; And still I feel his melancholy eyes Look judgment on me. It is seven years since: I know not if ’twas pity or ’twas scorn Has made them so far-reaching: judge it ye Who have had to do with pity more than love. And scorn than hatred. I am used, since then, To other ways, from equal men. But so, Even so, we let go hands, my cousin and I, And, in between us, rushed the torrent-world To blanch our faces like divided rocks, And bar for ever mutual sight and touch Except through swirl of spray and all that roar.

THIRD BOOK.

‘TO-DAY thou girdest up thy loins thyself, And goest where thou wouldest: presently Others shall gird thee,’ said the Lord, ‘to go Where thou would’st not.’ He spoke to Peter thus, To signify the death which he should die When crucified head downwards. If He spoke To Peter then, He speaks to us the same; The word suits many different martyrdoms, And signifies a multiform of death, Although we scarcely die apostles, we, And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.

For ’tis not in mere death that men die most; And, after our first girding of the loins In youth’s fine linen and fair broidery, To run up hill and meet the rising sun, We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool, While others gird us with the violent bands Of social figments, feints, and formalisms, Reversing our straight nature, lifting up Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts, Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world.

Yet He can pluck us from that shameful cross. God, set our feet low and our forehead high, And show us how a man was made to walk!

Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed. The room does very well; I have to write Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away; Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room, Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters! throw them down At once, as I must have them, to be sure, Whether I bid you never bring me such At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse. You choose to bring them, as I choose perhaps To throw them in the fire. Now, get to bed, And dream, if possible, I am not cross.

Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,— A mere, mere woman,—a mere flaccid nerve,— A kerchief left out all night in the rain, Turned soft so,—overtasked and overstrained And overlived in this close London life! And yet I should be stronger. Never burn Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare With red seals from the table, saying each, ‘Here’s something that you know not.’ Out alas, ’Tis scarcely that the world’s more good and wise Or even straighter and more consequent Since yesterday at this time—yet, again, If but one angel spoke from Ararat, I should be very sorry not to hear: So open all the letters! let me read. Blanche Ord, the writer in the ‘Lady’s Fan,’ Requests my judgment on ... that, afterwards. Kate Ward desires the model of my cloak, And signs, ‘Elisha to you.’ Pringle Sharpe Presents his work on ‘Social Conduct,’ ... craves A little money for his pressing debts ... From me, who scarce have money for my needs,— Art’s fiery chariot which we journey in Being apt to singe our singing-robes to holes, Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate Ward! Here’s Rudgely knows it,—editor and scribe— He’s ‘forced to marry where his heart is not, Because the purse lacks where he lost his heart.’ Ah,—— lost it because no one picked it up! That’s really loss! (and passable impudence.) My critic Hammond flatters prettily, And wants another volume like the last. My critic Belfair wants another book Entirely different, which will sell, (and live?) A striking book, yet not a startling book, The public blames originalities, (You must not pump spring-water unawares Upon a gracious public, full of nerves—) Good things, not subtle, new yet orthodox, As easy reading as the dog-eared page That’s fingered by said public, fifty years, Since first taught spelling by its grandmother, And yet a revelation in some sort: That’s hard, my critic Belfair! So—what next? My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts; ‘Call a man, John, a woman, Joan,’ says he, ‘And do not prate so of humanities:’ Whereat I call my critic, simply Stokes. My critic Jobson recommends more mirth, Because a cheerful genius suits the times, And all true poets laugh unquenchably Like Shakspeare and the gods. That’s very hard. The gods may laugh, and Shakspeare; Dante smiled With such a needy heart on two pale lips, We cry, ‘Weep rather, Dante.’ Poems are Men, if true poems: and who dares exclaim At any man’s door, ’Here, ’tis probable The thunder fell last week, and killed a wife, And scared a sickly husband—what of that? Get up, be merry, shout, and clap your hands, Because a cheerful genius suits the times—’? None says so to the man,—and why indeed Should any to the poem? A ninth seal; The apocalypse is drawing to a close. Ha,—this from Vincent Carrington,—‘Dear friend, I want good counsel. Will you lend me wings To raise me to the subject, in a sketch I’ll bring to-morrow—may I? at eleven? A poet’s only born to turn to use; So save you! for the world ... and Carrington.’ ‘(Writ after.) Have you heard of Romney Leigh, Beyond what’s said of him in newspapers, His phalansteries there, his speeches here, His pamphlets, pleas, and statements, everywhere? He dropped me long ago; but no one drops A golden apple—though indeed, one day, You hinted that, but jested. Well, at least, You know Lord Howe, who sees him ... whom he sees, And you see, and I hate to see,—for Howe Stands high upon the brink of theories, Observes the swimmers, and cries ‘Very fine,’ But keeps dry linen equally,—unlike That gallant breaster, Romney. Strange it is, Such sudden madness seizing a young man, To make earth over again,—while I’m content To make the pictures. Let me bring the sketch. A tiptoe Danae, overbold and hot; Both arms a-flame to meet her wishing Jove Halfway, and burn him faster down; the face And breasts upturned and straining, the loose locks All glowing with the anticipated gold. Or here’s another on the self-same theme. She lies here—flat upon her prison-floor, The long hair swathed about her to the heel, Like wet sea-weed. You dimly see her through The glittering haze of that prodigious rain, Half blotted out of nature by a love As heavy as fate. I’ll bring you either sketch. I think, myself, the second indicates More passion.’ Surely. Self is put away, And calm with abdication. She is Jove, And no more Danae—greater thus. Perhaps The painter symbolises unawares Two states of the recipient artist-soul; One, forward, personal, wanting reverence, Because aspiring only. We’ll be calm, And know that, when indeed our Joves come down, We all turn stiller than we have ever been.