“Well, last Friday was a ‘red-letter’ day to me. I went to Rossetti’s at six, dined about 7.30, and stayed there all night. We had a jolly talk before dinner, and then Shields the painter came in and stayed till about 11 o’clock: after that Rossetti read me all his unpublished poems, some of which are magnificent—talked, etc.—and we did not go to bed till about three in the morning. I did not go to the Bank next day, as I did not feel well: however, I wrote hard at poetry, etc., all day till seven o’clock, managing to keep myself up with tea. I was quite taken aback by the extent of Rossetti’s praise. He said he did not say much in his letter because writing so often looks ‘gushing’ but he considered I was able to take a foremost place among the younger poets of the day—and that many signs in my writings pointed to a first-class poet—that the opening of ‘The Dead Bridegroom’ was worthy of Keats—that ‘Motherhood’ was in every sense of the word a memorable poem—that I must have great productive power, and broad and fine imagination—and many other things which made me very glad and proud.”
“The Dead Bridegroom” was never published, but in a letter to a friend who raised objections to the treatment of the poem “Motherhood”—he wrote in explanation:
“You seem to think my object in writing was to describe the actual initial act of Motherhood—whereas such acts were only used incidentally to the idea. I entirely agree with you in thinking such a motif unfit for poetic treatment—and more, I think the choice of such would be in very bad taste and wanting in true delicacy. My aim was something very far from this—and what made me see you had not grasped it were the words—‘Besides, is not your type of civilised woman degraded by being associated with the savage and the wild beast?’
“Of course, what I was endeavouring to work out was just the opposite of this. ‘Motherhood’ was written from a deep conviction of the beauty of the state of Motherhood itself, of the holy, strangely similar bond of union it gave to all created things, and how it, as it were, forged the links whereby the chain of life reached unbroken from the polyp depths we do see to the God whom we do not see. Looking at it as I did, I saw it transfigured to the Seal of Unity: I saw the bestial life touch the savage, and the latter’s low existence edge complete nobility of womanhood, as—in the spirit—I see this last again merge into fuller spiritual periods beyond the present sphere of human life. In embodying this idea I determined to take refuge in no vague transcendentalism, or from any false feeling shirk what I knew to be noble in its mystic wonder and significance: and I came to the conclusion that the philosophic idea could be best embodied and made apparent by moulding it into three typical instances of motherhood, representing the brute, the savage, and the civilised woman. From this point of view, I considered the making choice of the initial act of motherhood—of birth—entirely justifiable, and beyond reach of reproach of impurity, or even unfitness. As to the artistic working out of these typical motives, I gave to the first glow and colour, to the second mystery and weirdness, to the third what dignity and solemnity I could.
“These were my aims and views, and I have not yet seen anything to make me change them....
“So much for ‘Motherhood.’ As to ‘The Dead Bridegroom,’ I quite admit that the advisability of choosing such subjects is a very debatable one. It is the only one of mine (in my opinion) which could incur the charge of doubtful ‘fitness.’ As a poem, moreover, it is inferior in workmanship to ‘Motherhood.’”
To E. A. S.:
“4: 2: 81.
“I have written one of my best poems (in its own way) since writing you last. It was on Tuesday night: I did not get back till about seven o’clock, and began at once to write. Your letter came an hour or so afterward but it had to lie waiting till after midnight, when I finished, having written and polished a complete poem of thirty verses in that short time. It is a ballad. The story itself is a very tragic one. Perhaps the kind of verse would be clear to you if I were to quote a verse as a specimen:
“And I saw thy face wax flush’d, then pale,
And thy lips grow blue like black-ice hail,
With eyes on fire with the soul’s fierce bale,