It burns, it burnt—my whole life burnt with it, And light, not sunlight and not torchlight, flashed My steps out through the slow and difficult road. I had grown distrustful of too forward Springs, The season’s books in drear significance Of morals, dropping round me. Lively books? The ash has livelier verdure than the yew; And yet the yew’s green longer, and alone Found worthy of the holy Christmas time. We’ll plant more yews if possible, albeit We plant the graveyards with them. Day and night I worked my rhythmic thought, and furrowed up Both watch and slumber with long lines of life Which did not suit their season. The rose fell From either cheek, my eyes globed luminous Through orbits of blue shadow, and my pulse Would shudder along the purple-veined wrist Like a shot bird. Youth’s stern, set face to face With youth’s ideal: and when people came And said, ‘You work too much, you are looking ill,’ I smiled for pity of them who pitied me, And thought I should be better soon perhaps For those ill looks. Observe—‘I,’ means in youth Just I ... the conscious and eternal soul With all its ends,—and not the outside life, The parcel-man, the doublet of the flesh, The so much liver, lung, integument, Which make the sum of ‘I’ hereafter, when World-talkers talk of doing well or ill. I prosper, if I gain a step, although A nail then pierced my foot: although my brain Embracing any truth, froze paralysed, I prosper. I but change my instrument; I break the spade off, digging deep for gold, And catch the mattock up. I worked on, on. Through all the bristling fence of nights and days Which hedges time in from the eternities, I struggled, ... never stopped to note the stakes Which hurt me in my course. The midnight oil Would stink sometimes; there came some vulgar needs: I had to live, that therefore I might work, And, being but poor, I was constrained, for life, To work with one hand for the booksellers, While working with the other for myself And art. You swim with feet as well as hands, Or make small way. I apprehended this,— In England, no one lives by verse that lives; And, apprehending, I resolved by prose To make a space to sphere my living verse. I wrote for cyclopædias, magazines, And weekly papers, holding up my name To keep it from the mud. I learnt the use Of the editorial ‘we’ in a review, As courtly ladies the fine trick of trains, And swept it grandly through the open doors As if one could not pass through doors at all Save so encumbered. I wrote tales beside, Carved many an article on cherry-stones To suit light readers,—something in the lines Revealing, it was said, the mallet-hand, But that, I’ll never vouch for. What you do For bread, will taste of common grain, not grapes, Although you have a vineyard in Champagne,— Much less in Nephelococcygia, As mine was, peradventure. Having bread For just so many days, just breathing room For body and verse, I stood up straight and worked My veritable work. And as the soul Which grows within a child, makes the child grow,— Or as the fiery sap, the touch from God, Careering through a tree, dilates the bark, And roughs with scale and knob, before it strikes The summer foliage out in a green flame— So life, in deepening with me, deepened all The course I took, the work I did. Indeed, The academic law convinced of sin; The critics cried out on the falling off, Regretting the first manner. But I felt My heart’s life throbbing in my verse to show It lived, it also—certes incomplete, Disordered with all Adam in the blood, But even its very tumours, warts, and wens, Still organised by, and implying life.
A lady called upon me on such a day. She had the low voice of your English dames, Unused, it seems, to need rise half a note To catch attention,—and their quiet mood, As if they lived too high above the earth For that to put them out in anything: So gentle, because verily so proud; So wary and afeared of hurting you, By no means that you are not really vile, But that they would not touch you with their foot To push you to your place; so self-possessed Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes An effort in their presence to speak truth: You know the sort of woman,—brilliant stuff, And out of nature. ‘Lady Waldemar,’ She said her name quite simply, as if it meant Not much indeed, but something,—took my hands, And smiled, as if her smile could help my case, And dropped her eyes on me, and let them melt. ‘Is this,’ she said, ‘the Muse?’ ‘No sybil even,’ I answered, ‘since she fails to guess the cause Which taxed you with this visit, madam.’ ‘Good,’ She said, ‘I like to be sincere at once; Perhaps, if I had found a literal Muse, The visit might have taxed me. As it is, You wear your blue so chiefly in your eyes, My fair Aurora, in a frank good way, It comforts me entirely for your fame, As well as for the trouble of my ascent To this Olympus.’ There, a silver laugh Ran rippling through her quickened little breaths The steep stair somewhat justified. ‘But still Your ladyship has left me curious why You dared the risk of finding the said Muse?’
‘Ah,—keep me, notwithstanding, to the point, Like any pedant. Is the blue in eyes As awful as in stockings, after all, I wonder, that you’d have my business out Before I breathe—exact the epic plunge In spite of gasps? Well, naturally you think I’ve come here, as the lion-hunters go To deserts, to secure you, with a trap, For exhibition in my drawing-rooms On zoologic soirées? Not in the least. Roar softly at me; I am frivolous, I dare say; I have played at lions, too, Like other women of my class,—but now I meet my lion simply as Androcles Met his ... when at his mercy.’ So, she bent Her head, as queens may mock,—then lifting up Her eyelids with a real grave queenly look, Which ruled, and would not spare, not even herself,— ‘I think you have a cousin:—Romney Leigh.’
‘You bring a word from him?’—my eyes leapt up To the very height of hers,—‘a word from him?’
‘I bring a word about him, actually. But first,’—she pressed me with her urgent eyes— ‘You do not love him,—you?’ ‘You’re frank at least In putting questions, madam,’ I replied. ‘I love my cousin cousinly—no more.’
‘I guessed as much. I’m ready to be frank In answering also, if you’ll question me, Or even with something less. You stand outside, You artist women, of the common sex; You share not with us, and exceed us so Perhaps by what you’re mulcted in, your hearts Being starved to make your heads: so run the old Traditions of you. I can therefore speak, Without the natural shame which creatures feel When speaking on their level, to their like. There’s many a papist she, would rather die Than own to her maid she put a ribbon on To catch the indifferent eye of such a man,— Who yet would count adulteries on her beads At holy Mary’s shrine, and never blush; Because the saints are so far off, we lose All modesty before them. Thus, today. ’Tis I, love Romney Leigh.’ ‘Forbear,’ I cried. ‘If here’s no Muse, still less is any saint; Nor even a friend, that Lady Waldemar Should make confessions’.... ‘That’s unkindly said. If no friend, what forbids to make a friend To join to our confession ere we have done? I love your cousin. If it seems unwise To say so, it’s still foolisher (we’re frank) To feel so. My first husband left me young, And pretty enough, so please you, and rich enough, To keep my booth in May-fair with the rest To happy issues. There are marquises Would serve seven years to call me wife, I know: And, after seven, I might consider it, For there’s some comfort in a marquisate When all’s said,—yes, but after the seven years; I, now, love Romney. You put up your lip, So like a Leigh! so like him!—Pardon me, I am well aware I do not derogate In loving Romney Leigh. The name is good, The means are excellent; but the man, the man— Heaven help us both,—I am near as mad as he, In loving such an one.’ She slowly swung Her heavy ringlets till they touched her smile, As reasonably sorry for herself; And thus continued,— ‘Of a truth, Miss Leigh, I have not, without struggle, come to this. I took a master in the German tongue, I gamed a little, went to Paris twice; But, after all, this love!... you eat of love, And do as vile a thing as if you ate Of garlic—which, whatever else you eat, Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach Reminds you of your onion. Am I coarse? Well, love’s coarse, nature’s coarse—ah, there’s the rub! We fair fine ladies, who park out our lives From common sheep-paths, cannot help the crows From flying over,—we’re as natural still As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly In Lyons’ velvet,—we are not, for that, Lay-figures, look you! we have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts, As ready for distracted ends and acts As any distressed sempstress of them all That Romney groans and toils for. We catch love And other fevers, in the vulgar way. Love will not be outwitted by our wit, Nor outrun by our equipages:—mine Persisted, spite of efforts. All my cards Turned up but Romney Leigh; my German stopped At germane Wertherism; my Paris rounds Returned me from the Champs Elysées just A ghost, and sighing like Dido’s. I came home Uncured,—convicted rather to myself Of being in love ... in love! That’s coarse you’ll say. I’m talking garlic.’ Coldly I replied. ‘Apologise for atheism, not love! For me, I do believe in love, and God. I know my cousin: Lady Waldemar I know not: yet I say as much as this— Whoever loves him, let her not excuse But cleanse herself, that, loving such a man, She may not do it with such unworthy love He cannot stoop and take it.’ ‘That is said Austerely, like a youthful prophetess, Who knits her brows across her pretty eyes To keep them back from following the grey flight Of doves between the temple-columns. Dear, Be kinder with me. Let us two be friends. I’m a mere woman,—the more weak perhaps Through being so proud; you’re better; as for him, He’s best. Indeed he builds his goodness up So high, it topples down to the other side, And makes a sort of badness; there’s the worst I have to say against your cousin’s best! And so be mild, Aurora, with my worst, For his sake, if not mine.’ ‘I own myself Incredulous of confidence like this Availing him or you.’ ‘I, worthy of him? In your sense I am not so—let it pass. And yet I save him if I marry him; Let that pass too.’ ‘Pass, pass! we play police Upon my cousin’s life, to indicate What may or may not pass?’ I cried. ‘He knows What’s worthy of him; the choice remains with him; And what he chooses, act or wife, I think I shall not call unworthy, I, for one.’
‘’Tis somewhat rashly said,’ she answered slow. ‘Now let’s talk reason, though we talk of love. Your cousin Romney Leigh’s a monster! there, The word’s out fairly; let me prove the fact. We’ll take, say, that most perfect of antiques, They call the Genius of the Vatican, Which seems too beauteous to endure itself In this mixed world, and fasten it for once Upon the torso of the Drunken Fawn, (Who might limp surely, if he did not dance,) Instead of Buonarroti’s mask: what then? We show the sort of monster Romney is, With god-like virtues and heroic aims Subjoined to limping possibilities Of mismade human nature. Grant the man Twice god-like, twice heroic,—still he limps, And here’s the point we come to.’ ‘Pardon me, But, Lady Waldemar, the point’s the thing We never come to.’ ‘Caustic, insolent At need! I like you’—(there, she took my hands) ‘And now my lioness, help Androcles, For all your roaring. Help me! for myself I would not say so—but for him. He limps So certainly, he’ll fall into the pit A week hence,—so I lose him—so he is lost! And when he’s fairly married, he a Leigh, To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth, Starved out in London, till her coarse-grained hands Are whiter than her morals,—you, for one, May call his choice most worthy.’ ‘Married! lost! He, ... Romney!’ ‘Ah, you’re moved at last,’ she said. ‘These monsters, set out in the open sun, Of course throw monstrous shadows: those who think Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who but he? And who but you can wonder? He has been mad, The whole world knows, since first, a nominal man, He soured the proctors, tried the gownsmen’s wits, With equal scorn of triangles and wine, And took no honours, yet was honourable. They’ll tell you he lost count of Homer’s ships In Melbourne’s poor-bills, Ashley’s factory bills,— Ignored the Aspasia we all dare to praise, For other women, dear, we could not name Because we’re decent. Well, he had some right On his side probably; men always have, Who go absurdly wrong. The living boor Who brews your ale, exceeds in vital worth Dead Cæsar who ‘stops bungholes’ in the cask; And also, to do good is excellent, For persons of his income, even to boors: I sympathise with all such things. But he Went mad upon them ... madder and more mad, From college times to these,—as, going down hill, The faster still, the farther! you must know Your Leigh by heart: he has sown his black young curls With bleaching cares of half a million men Already. If you do not starve, or sin, You’re nothing to him. Pay the income-tax, And break your heart upon’t ... he’ll scarce be touched; But come upon the parish, qualified For the parish stocks, and Romney will be there To call you brother, sister, or perhaps A tenderer name still. Had I any chance With Mister Leigh, who am Lady Waldemar, And never committed felony?’ ‘You speak Too bitterly,’ I said, ‘for the literal truth.’
‘The truth is bitter. Here’s a man who looks For ever on the ground! you must be low Or else a pictured ceiling overhead, Good painting thrown away. For me, I’ve done What women may, (we’re somewhat limited, We modest women) but I’ve done my best. —How men are perjured when they swear our eyes Have meaning in them! they’re just blue or brown,— They just can drop their lids a little. In fact, Mine did more, for I read half Fourier through, Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis Blanc, With various others of his socialists; And if I had been a fathom less in love, Had cured myself with gaping. As it was, I quoted from them prettily enough, Perhaps, to make them sound half rational To a saner man than he, whene’er we talked, (For which I dodged occasion)—learnt by heart His speeches in the Commons and elsewhere Upon the social question; heaped reports Of wicked women and penitentiaries, On all my tables, with a place for Sue; And gave my name to swell subscription-lists Toward keeping up the sun at nights in heaven, And other possible ends. All things I did, Except the impossible ... such as wearing gowns Provided by the Ten Hours’ movement! there, I stopped—we must stop somewhere. He, meanwhile, Unmoved as the Indian tortoise ’neath the world, Let all that noise go on upon his back: He would not disconcert or throw me out; ’Twas well to see a woman of my class With such a dawn of conscience. For the heart, Made firewood for his sake, and flaming up To his very face ... he warmed his feet at it; But deigned to let my carriage stop him short In park or street,—he leaning on the door, With news of the committee which sate last On pickpockets at suck.’
‘You jest—you jest.’
‘As martyrs jest, dear, (if you’ve read their lives) Upon the axe which kills them. When all’s done By me, ... for him—you’ll ask him presently The colour of my hair—he cannot tell, Or answers ‘dark’ at random,—while, be sure, He’s absolute on the figure, five or ten, Of my last subscription. Is it bearable, And I a woman?’ ‘Is it reparable, Though I were a man?’ ‘I know not. That’s to prove. But, first, this shameful marriage.’ ‘Ay?’ I cried, ‘Then really there’s a marriage?’ ‘Yesterday I held him fast upon it. ‘Mister Leigh,’ Said I, ‘shut up a thing, it makes more noise. The boiling town keeps secrets ill; I’ve known Yours since last week. Forgive my knowledge so: You feel I’m not the woman of the world The world thinks; you have borne with me before, And used me in your noble work, our work, And now you shall not cast me off because You’re at the difficult point, the join. ’Tis true Even I can scarce admit the cogency Of such a marriage ... where you do not love, (Except the class) yet marry and throw your name Down to the gutter, for a fire-escape To future generations! it’s sublime, A great example,—a true Genesis Of the opening social era. But take heed; This virtuous act must have a patent weight, Or loses half its virtue. Make it tell, Interpret it, and set in the light, And do not muffle it in a winter-cloak As a vulgar bit of shame,—as if, at best, A Leigh had made a misalliance and blushed A Howard should know it.’ Then, I pressed him more— ‘He would not choose,’ I said, ‘that even his kin, ... Aurora Leigh, even ... should conceive his act Less sacrifice, more appetite.’ At which He grew so pale, dear, ... to the lips, I knew I had touched him. ‘Do you know her,’ he enquired, ‘My cousin Aurora?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, and lied, (But truly we all know you by your books) And so I offered to come straight to you, Explain the subject, justify the cause, And take you with me to St. Margaret’s Court To see this miracle, this Marian Erle, This drover’s daughter (she’s not pretty, he swears) Upon whose finger, exquisitely pricked By a hundred needles, we’re to hang the tie ’Twixt class and class in England,—thus, indeed, By such a presence, yours and mine, to lift The match up from the doubtful place. At once He thanked me, sighing ... murmured to himself, ‘She’ll do it perhaps; she’s noble,’—thanked me twice, And promised, as my guerdon, to put off His marriage for a month.’ I answered then. ‘I understand your drift imperfectly. You wish to lead me to my cousin’s betrothed, To touch her hand if worthy, and hold her hand If feeble, thus to justify his match. So be it then. But how this serves your ends, And how the strange confession of your love Serves this, I have to learn—I cannot see.’