Part 22

‘You’re sorry, dear Aurora? Yes indeed, They did it perfectly: a thorough work, And not a failure, this time. Let us grant ’Tis somewhat easier, though, to burn a house Than build a system:—yet that’s easy, too, In a dream. Books, pictures,—ay, the pictures! what, You think your dear Vandykes would give them pause? Our proud ancestral Leighs with those peaked beards, Or bosoms white as foam thrown up on rocks From the old-spent wave. Such calm defiant looks They flared up with! now, nevermore they’ll twit The bones in the family-vault with ugly death. Not one was rescued, save the Lady Maud, Who threw you down, that morning you were born, The undeniable lineal mouth and chin, To wear for ever for her gracious sake; For which good deed I saved her: the rest went: And you, you’re sorry, cousin. Well, for me, With all my phalansterians safely out, (Poor hearts, they helped the burners, it was said, And certainly a few clapped hands and yelled) The ruin did not hurt me as it might,— As when for instance I was hurt one day, A certain letter being destroyed. In fact, To see the great house flare so ... oaken floors, Our fathers made so fine with rushes once, Before our mothers furbished them with trains,— Carved wainscoats, panelled walls, the favourite slide For draining off a martyr, (or a rogue) The echoing galleries, half a half-mile long, And all the various stairs that took you up And took you down, and took you round about Upon their slippery darkness, recollect, All helping to keep up one blazing jest; The flames through all the casements pushing forth, Like red-hot devils crinkled into snakes, All signifying,—‘Look you, Romney Leigh, We save the people from your saving, here, Yet so as by fire! we make a pretty show Besides,—and that’s the best you’ve ever done.’— —To see this, almost moved myself to clap! The ‘vale et plaude’ came, too, with effect, When, in the roof fell, and the fire, that paused, Stunned momently beneath the stroke of slates And tumbling rafters, rose at once and roared, And wrapping the whole house, (which disappeared In a mounting whirlwind of dilated flame,) Blew upward, straight, its drift of fiery chaff In the face of Heaven, ... which blenched, and ran up higher.’

‘Poor Romney!’ ‘Sometimes when I dream,’ he said, ‘I hear the silence after; ’twas so still. For all those wild beasts, yelling, cursing round, Were suddenly silent, while you counted five! So silent, that you heard a young bird fall From the top-nest in the neighbouring rookery Through edging over-rashly toward the light. The old rooks had already fled too far, To hear the screech they fled with, though you saw Some flying on still, like scatterings of dead leaves In autumn-gusts, seen dark against the sky: All flying,—ousted, like the House of Leigh.’

‘Dear Romney!’ ‘Evidently ’twould have been A fine sight for a poet, sweet, like you, To make the verse blaze after. I myself, Even I, felt something in the grand old trees, Which stood that moment like brute Druid gods Amazed upon the rim of ruin, where, As into a blackened socket, the great fire Had dropped,—still throwing up splinters now and then, To show them grey with all their centuries, Left there to witness that on such a day The house went out.’ ‘Ah!’ ‘While you counted five I seemed to feel a little like a Leigh,— But then it passed, Aurora. A child cried; And I had enough to think of what to do With all those houseless wretches in the dark, And ponder where they’d dance the next time, they Who had burnt the viol.’ ‘Did you think of that? Who burns his viol will not dance, I know, To cymbals, Romney.’ ‘O my sweet sad voice,’ He cried,—‘O voice that speaks and overcomes! The sun is silent, but Aurora speaks.’

‘Alas,’ I said; ‘I speak I know not what: I’m back in childhood, thinking as a child, A foolish fancy—will it make you smile? I shall not from the window of my room Catch sight of those old chimneys any more.’

‘No more,’ he answered. ‘If you pushed one day Through all the green hills to our fathers’ house, You’d come upon a great charred circle where The patient earth was singed an acre round; With one stone-stair, symbolic of my life, Ascending, winding, leading up to nought! ’Tis worth a poet’s seeing. Will you go?’

I made no answer. Had I any right To weep with this man, that I dared to speak? A woman stood between his soul and mine, And waved us off from touching evermore With those unclean white hands of hers. Enough. We had burnt our viols and were silent. So, The silence lengthened till it pressed. I spoke, To breathe: ‘I think you were ill afterward.’

‘More ill,’ he answered, ‘had been scarcely ill. I hoped this feeble fumbling at life’s knot Might end concisely,—but I failed to die, As formerly I failed to live,—and thus Grew willing, having tried all other ways, To try just God’s. Humility’s so good, When pride’s impossible. Mark us, how we make Our virtues, cousin, from our worn-out sins, Which smack of them from henceforth. Is it right, For instance, to wed here, while you love there? And yet because a man sins once, the sin Cleaves to him, in necessity to sin; That if he sin not _so_, to damn himself, He sins _so_, to damn others with himself: And thus, to wed here, loving there, becomes A duty. Virtue buds a dubious leaf Round mortal brows; your ivy’s better, dear. —Yet she, ’tis certain, is my very wife; The very lamb left mangled by the wolves Through my own bad shepherding: and could I choose But take her on my shoulder past this stretch Of rough, uneasy wilderness, poor lamb, Poor child, poor child?—Aurora, my belov’d, I will not vex you any more to-night; But, having spoken what I came to say, The rest shall please you. What she can, in me,— Protection, tender liking, freedom, ease, She shall have surely, liberally, for her And hers, Aurora. Small amends they’ll make For hideous evils (which she had not known Except by me) and for this imminent loss, This forfeit presence of a gracious friend, Which also she must forfeit for my sake, Since, ... drop your hand in mine a moment, sweet, We’re parting!—— Ah, my snowdrop, what a touch, As if the wind had swept it off! you grudge Your gelid sweetness on my palm but so, A moment? angry, that I could not bear _You_ ... speaking, breathing, living, side by side With some one called my wife ... and live, myself? Nay, be not cruel—you must understand! Your lightest footfall on a floor of mine Would shake the house, my lintel being uncrossed ’Gainst angels: henceforth it is night with me, And so, henceforth, I put the shutters up; Auroras must not come to spoil my dark.’

He smiled so feebly, with an empty hand Stretched sideway from me,—as indeed he looked To any one but me to give him help,— And, while the moon came suddenly out full, The double-rose of our Italian moons, Sufficient, plainly, for the heaven and earth, (The stars, struck dumb and washed away in dews Of golden glory, and the mountains steeped In divine languor) he, the man, appeared So pale and patient, like the marble man A sculptor puts his personal sadness in To join his grandeur of ideal thought,— As if his mallet struck me from my height Of passionate indignation, I who had risen Pale,—doubting, paused, ... Was Romney mad indeed? Had all this wrong of heart made sick the brain?

Then quiet, with a sort of tremulous pride, ‘Go, cousin,’ I said coldly. ‘A farewell Was sooner spoken ’twixt a pair of friends In those old days, than seems to suit you now: And if, since then, I’ve writ a book or two, I’m somewhat dull still in the manly art Of phrase and metaphrase. Why, any man Can carve a score of white Loves out of snow, As Buonarroti down in Florence there, And set them on the wall in some safe shade, As safe, sir, as your marriage! very good; Though if a woman took one from the ledge To put it on the table by her flowers, And let it mind her of a certain friend, ’Twould drop at once, (so better,) would not bear Her nail-mark even, where she took it up A little tenderly; so best, I say: For me, I would not touch so light a thing, And risk to spoil it half an hour before The sun shall shine to melt it: leave it there. I’m plain at speech, direct in purpose: when I speak, you’ll take the meaning as it is, And not allow for puckerings in the silks By clever stitches. I’m a woman, sir, And use the woman’s figures naturally, As you, the male license. So, I wish you well. I’m simply sorry for the griefs you’ve had— And not for your sake only, but mankind’s. This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.’ ‘If gratefuller,’ He murmured,—‘by so much less pitiable! God’s self would never have come down to die, Could man have thanked him for it.’ ‘Happily ’Tis patent that, whatever,’ I resumed, ‘You suffered from this thanklessness of men, You sink no more than Moses’ bulrush-boat, When once relieved of Moses; for you’re light, You’re light, my cousin! which is well for you, And manly. For myself,—now mark me, sir, They burnt Leigh Hall; but if, consummated To devils, heightened beyond Lucifers, They had burnt instead a star or two, of those We saw above there just a moment back, Before the moon abolished them,—destroyed And riddled them in ashes through a sieve On the head of the foundering universe,—what then? If you and I remained still you and I, It would not shift our places as mere friends, Nor render decent you should toss a phrase Beyond the point of actual feeling!—nay, You shall not interrupt me: as you said, We’re parting. Certainly, not once or twice, To-night you’ve mocked me somewhat, or yourself; And I, at least, have not deserved it so That I should meet it unsurprised. But now, Enough: we’re parting ... parting. Cousin Leigh, I wish you well through all the acts of life And life’s relations, wedlock, not the least; And it shall ‘please me,’ in your words, to know You yield your wife, protection, freedom, ease, And very tender liking. May you live So happy with her, Romney, that your friends May praise her for it. Meantime, some of us Are wholly dull in keeping ignorant Of what she has suffered by you, and what debt Of sorrow your rich love sits down to pay: But if ’tis sweet for love to pay its debt, ’Tis sweeter still for love to give its gift; And you, be liberal in the sweeter way,— You can, I think. At least, as touches me, You owe her, cousin Romney, no amends; She is not used to hold my gown so fast, You need entreat her now to let it go: The lady never was a friend of mine, Nor capable,—I thought you knew as much,— Of losing for your sake so poor a prize As such a worthless friendship. Be content, Good cousin, therefore, both for her and you! I’ll never spoil your dark, nor dull your noon, Nor vex you when you’re merry, nor when you rest: You shall not need to put a shutter up To keep out this Aurora. Ah, your north Can make Auroras which vex nobody, Scarce known from evenings! also, let me say, My larks fly higher than some windows. Right; You’ve read your Leighs. Indeed ’twould shake a house, If such as I came in with outstretched hand, Still warm and thrilling from the clasp of one ... Of one we know, ... to acknowledge, palm to palm, As mistress there ... the Lady Waldemar.’

‘Now God be with us’ ... with a sudden clash Of voice he interrupted—‘what name’s that? You spoke a name, Aurora.’ ‘Pardon me; I would that, Romney, I could name your wife Nor wound you, yet be worthy.’ ‘Are we mad?’ He echoed—‘wife! mine! Lady Waldemar! I think you said my wife.’ He sprang to his feet, And threw his noble head back toward the moon As one who swims against a stormy sea, And laughed with such a helpless, hopeless scorn, I stood and trembled. ‘May God judge me so,’ He said at last,—‘I came convicted here, And humbled sorely if not enough. I came, Because this woman from her crystal soul Had shown me something which a man calls light: Because too, formerly, I sinned by her As, then and ever since, I have, by God, Through arrogance of nature,—though I loved ... Whom best, I need not say, ... since that is writ Too plainly in the book of my misdeeds; And thus I came here to abase myself, And fasten, kneeling, on her regent brows A garland which I startled thence one day Of her beautiful June-youth. But here again I’m baffled!—fail in my abasement as My aggrandisement: there’s no room left for me, At any woman’s foot, who misconceives My nature, purpose, possible actions. What! Are you the Aurora who made large my dreams To frame your greatness? you conceive so small? You stand so less than woman, through being more, And lose your natural instinct, like a beast, Through intellectual culture? since indeed I do not think that any common she Would dare adopt such fancy-forgeries For the legible life-signature of such 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.

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 a 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 knew 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 a 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 shot 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 to 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 you should not want his love, beware, 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, footprint 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 gulf 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 them as my child and wife.’