The letter written, I felt satisfied. The ashes, smouldering in me, were thrown out By handfuls from me: I had writ my heart And wept my tears, and now was cool and calm; And, going straightway to the neighbouring room, I lifted up the curtains of the bed Where Marian Erle, the babe upon her arm, Both faces leaned together like a pair Of folded innocences, self-complete, Each smiling from the other, smiled and slept. There seemed no sin, no shame, no wrath, no grief. I felt, she too, had spoken words that night, But softer certainly, and said to God,— Who laughs in heaven perhaps, that such as I Should make ado for such as she.—‘Defiled’ I wrote? ‘defiled’ I thought her? Stoop, Stoop lower, Aurora! get the angels’ leave To creep in somewhere, humbly, on your knees, Within this round of sequestration white In which they have wrapt earth’s foundlings, heaven’s elect!
The next day, we took train to Italy And fled on southward in the roar of steam. The marriage-bells of Romney must be loud, To sound so clear through all! I was not well; And truly, though the truth is like a jest, I could not choose but fancy, half the way, I stood alone i’ the belfry, fifty bells Of naked iron, mad with merriment, (As one who laughs and cannot stop himself) All clanking at me, in me, over me, Until I shrieked a shriek I could not hear, And swooned with noise,—but still, along my swoon, Was ’ware the baffled changes backward rang, Prepared, at each emerging sense, to beat And crash it out with clangour. I was weak; I struggled for the posture of my soul In upright consciousness of place and time, But evermore, ’twixt waking and asleep, Slipped somehow, staggered, caught at Marian’s eyes A moment, (it is very good for strength To know that some one needs you to be strong) And so recovered what I called myself, For that time. I just knew it when we swept Above the old roofs of Dijon. Lyons dropped A spark into the night, half trodden out Unseen. But presently the winding Rhone Washed out the moonlight large along his banks, Which strained their yielding curves out clear and clean To hold it,—shadow of town and castle blurred Upon the hurrying river. Such an air Blew thence upon the forehead,—half an air And half a water,—that I leaned and looked; Then, turning back on Marian, smiled to mark That she looked only on her child, who slept, His face towards the moon too. So we passed The liberal open country and the close, And shot through tunnels, like a lightning-wedge By great Thor-hammers driven through the rock, Which, quivering through the intestine blackness, splits, And lets it in at once: the train swept in Athrob with effort, trembling with resolve, The fierce denouncing whistle wailing on And dying off smothered in the shuddering dark, While we, self-awed, drew troubled breath, oppressed As other Titans, underneath the pile And nightmare of the mountains. Out, at last, To catch the dawn afloat upon the land! —Hills, slung forth broadly and gauntly everywhere, Not crampt in their foundations, pushing wide Rich outspreads of the vineyards and the corn, (As if they entertained i’ the name of France) While, down their straining sides, streamed manifest A soil as red as Charlemagne’s knightly blood, To consecrate the verdure. Some one said, ‘Marseilles!’ And lo, the city of Marseilles, With all her ships behind her, and beyond, The scimitar of ever-shining sea, For right-hand use, bared blue against the sky!
That night we spent between the purple heaven And purple water: I think Marian slept; But I, as a dog a-watch for his master’s foot, Who cannot sleep or eat before he hears, I sate upon the deck and watched all night, And listened through the stars for Italy. Those marriage-bells I spoke of, sounded far, As some child’s go-cart in the street beneath To a dying man who will not pass the day, And knows it, holding by a hand he loves. I, too, sate quiet, satisfied with death, Sate silent: I could hear my own soul speak, And had my friend,—for Nature comes sometimes And says, ‘I am ambassador for God.’ I felt the wind soft from the land of souls; The old miraculous mountains heaved in sight, One straining past another along the shore, The way of grand dull Odyssean ghosts Athirst to drink the cool blue wine of seas And stare on voyagers. Peak pushing peak They stood: I watched beyond that Tyrian belt Of intense sea betwixt them and the ship, Down all their sides the misty olive-woods Dissolving in the weak congenial moon, And still disclosing some brown convent-tower That seems as if it grew from some brown rock,— Or many a little lighted village, dropt Like a fallen star, upon so high a point, You wonder what can keep it in its place From sliding headlong with the waterfalls Which drop and powder all the myrtle-groves With spray of silver. Thus my Italy Was stealing on us. Genoa broke with day; The Doria’s long pale palace striking out, From green hills in advance of the white town, A marble finger dominant to ships, Seen glimmering through the uncertain grey of dawn.
But then I did not think, ‘my Italy,’ I thought, ‘my father!’ O my father’s house, Without his presence!—Places are too much Or else too little, for immortal man; Too little, when love’s May o’ergrows the ground,— Too much, when that luxuriant wealth of green Is rustling to our ankles in dead leaves. ’Tis only good to be, or here or there, Because we had a dream on such a stone, Or this or that,—but, once beings wholly waked, And come back to the stone without the dream, We trip upon’t,—alas! and hurt ourselves; Or else it falls on us and grinds us flat, The heaviest grave-stone on this burying earth. —But while I stood and mused, a quiet touch Fell light upon my arm, and, turning round, A pair of moistened eyes convicted mine. ‘What, Marian! is the babe astir so soon?’ ‘He sleeps,’ she answered; ‘I have crept up thrice, And seen you sitting, standing, still at watch. I thought it did you good till now, but now’ ... ‘But now,’ I said, ‘you leave the child alone.’ ‘And you’re alone,’ she answered,—and she looked As if I, too, were something. Sweet the help Of one we have helped! Thanks, Marian, for that help.
I found a house, at Florence, on the hill Of Bellosguardo. ’Tis a tower that keeps A post of double-observation o’er The valley of Arno (holding as a hand The outspread city) straight toward Fiesole And Mount Morello and the setting sun,— The Vallombrosan mountains to the right, Which sunrise fills as full as crystal cups Wine-filled, and red to the brim because it’s red. No sun could die, nor yet be born, unseen By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve Were magnified before us in the pure Illimitable space and pause of sky, Intense as angels’ garments blanched with God, Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall Of the garden, dropped the mystic floating grey Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green From maize and vine) until ’twas caught and torn On that abrupt black line of cypresses Which signed the way to Florence. Beautiful The city lay along the ample vale, Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street; The river trailing like a silver cord Through all, and curling loosely, both before And after, over the whole stretch of land Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes, With farms and villas. Many weeks had passed, No word was granted.—Last, a letter came From Vincent Carrington:—‘My dear Miss Leigh, You’ve been as silent as a poet should, When any other man is sure to speak. If sick, if vexed, if dumb, a silver-piece Will split a man’s tongue,—straight he speaks and says, ‘Received that cheque.’ But you!... I send you funds To Paris, and you make no sign at all. Remember I’m responsible and wait A sign of you, Miss Leigh. ‘Meantime your book Is eloquent as if you were not dumb; And common critics, ordinarily deaf To such fine meanings, and, like deaf men, loth To seem deaf, answering chance-wise, yes or no, ‘It must be,’ or ‘it must not,’ (most pronounced When least convinced) pronounce for once aright: You’d think they really heard,—and so they do ... The burr of three or four who really hear And praise your book aright: Fame’s smallest trump Is a great ear-trumpet for the deaf as posts, No other being effective. Fear not, friend; We think, here, you have written a good book, And you, a woman! It was in you—yes, I felt ’twas in you: yet I doubted half If that od-force of German Reichenbach Which still from female finger-tips burns blue, Could strike out, as our masculine white heats, To quicken a man. Forgive me. All my heart Is quick with yours, since, just a fortnight since, I read your book and loved it. ‘Will you love My wife, too? Here’s my secret, I might keep A month more from you! but I yield it up Because I know you’ll write the sooner for’t,— Most women (of your height even) counting love Life’s only serious business. Who’s my wife That shall be in a month? you ask? nor guess? Remember what a pair of topaz eyes You once detected, turned against the wall, That morning, in my London painting-room; The face half-sketched, and slurred; the eyes alone! But you ... you caught them up with yours, and said ‘Kate Ward’s eyes, surely.’—Now, I own the truth, I had thrown them there to keep them safe from Jove; They would so naughtily find out their way To both the heads of both my Danaës, Where just it made me mad to look at them. Such eyes! I could not paint or think of eyes But those,—and so I flung them into paint And turned them to the wall’s care. Ay, but now I’ve let them out, my Kate’s! I’ve painted her, (I’ll change my style, and leave mythologies) The whole sweet face; it looks upon my soul Like a face on water, to beget itself. A half-length portrait, in a hanging cloak Like one you wore once; ’tis a little frayed; I pressed, too, for the nude harmonious arm— But she ... she’d have her way, and have her cloak; She said she could be like you only so, And would not miss the fortune. Ah, my friend, You’ll write and say she shall not miss your love Through meeting mine? in faith, she would not change: She has your books by heart, more than my words, And quotes you up against me till I’m pushed Where, three months since, her eyes were! nay, in fact, Nought satisfied her but to make me paint Your last book folded in her dimpled hands, Instead of my brown palette, as I wished, (And, grant me, the presentment had been newer) She’d grant me nothing: I’ve compounded for The naming of the wedding-day next month, And gladly too. ’Tis pretty, to remark How women can love women of your sort, And tie their hearts with love-knots to your feet, Grow insolent about you against men, And put us down by putting up the lip, As if a man,—there are such, let us own, Who write not ill,—remains a man, poor wretch, While you——! Write far worse than Aurora Leigh, And there’ll be women who believe of you (Besides my Kate) that if you walked on sand You would not leave a foot-print. ‘Are you put To wonder by my marriage, like poor Leigh? ‘Kate Ward!’ he said. ‘Kate Ward!’ he said anew. ‘I thought ...’ he said, and stopped,—‘I did not think....’ And then he dropped to silence. ‘Ah, he’s changed. I had not seen him, you’re aware, for long, But went of course. I have not touched on this Through all this letter,—conscious of your heart, And writing lightlier for the heavy fact, As clocks are voluble with lead. ‘How weak, To say I’m sorry. Dear Leigh, dearest Leigh! In those old days of Shropshire,—pardon me,— When he and you fought many a field of gold On what you should do, or you should not do, Make bread or verses, (it just came to that) I thought you’d one day draw a silken peace Through a golden ring. I thought so. Foolishly, The event proved,—for you went more opposite To each other, month by month, and year by year, Until this happened. God knows best, we say, But hoarsely. When the fever took him first, Just after I had writ to you in France, They tell me Lady Waldemar mixed drinks And counted grains, like any salaried nurse, Excepting that she wept too. Then Lord Howe, You’re right about Lord Howe! Lord Howe’s a trump; And yet, with such in his hand, a man like Leigh May lose, as he does. There’s an end to all,— Yes, even this letter, though the second sheet May find you doubtful. Write a word for Kate: Even now she reads my letters like a wife, And, if she sees her name, I’ll see her smile, And share the luck. So, bless you, friend of two! I will not ask you what your feeling is At Florence, with my pictures. I can hear Your heart a-flutter over the snow-hills; And, just to pace the Pitti with you once, I’d give a half-hour of to-morrow’s walk With Kate ... I think so. Vincent Carrington.’
The noon was hot; the air scorched like the sun, And was shut out. The closed persiani threw Their long-scored shadows on my villa-floor, And interlined the golden atmosphere Straight, still,—across the pictures on the wall, The statuette on the console, (of young Love And Psyche made one marble by a kiss) The low couch where I leaned, the table near, The vase of lilies, Marian pulled last night, (Each green leaf and each white leaf ruled in black As if for writing some new text of fate) And the open letter, rested on my knee,— But there, the lines swerved, trembled, though I sate Untroubled ... plainly, ... reading it again And three times. Well, he’s married; that is clear. No wonder that he’s married, nor much more That Vincent’s therefore, ‘sorry.’ Why, of course, The lady nursed him when he was not well, Mixed drinks,—unless nepenthe was the drink, ’Twas scarce worth telling. But a man in love Will see the whole sex in his mistress’ hood, The prettier for its lining of fair rose; Although he catches back, and says at last, ‘I’m sorry.’ Sorry. Lady Waldemar At prettiest, under the said hood, preserved From such a light as I could hold to her face To flare its ugly wrinkles out to shame,— Is scarce a wife for Romney, as friends judge, Aurora Leigh, or Vincent Carrington,— That’s plain. And if he’s ‘conscious of my heart’ ... Perhaps it’s natural, though the phrase is strong; (One’s apt to use strong phrases, being in love) And even that stuff of ‘fields of gold,’ ‘gold rings,’ And what he ‘thought,’ poor Vincent! what he ‘thought,’ May never mean enough to ruffle me. —Why, this room stifles. Better burn than choke; Best have air, air, although it comes with fire, Throw open blinds and windows to the noon And take a blister on my brow instead Of this dead weight! best, perfectly be stunned By those insufferable cicale, sick And hoarse with rapture of the summer-heat, That sing like poets, till their hearts break, ... sing Till men say, ‘It’s too tedious.’ Books succeed, And lives fail. Do I feel it so, at last? Kate loves a worn-out cloak for being like mine, While I live self-despised for being myself, And yearn toward some one else, who yearns away From what he is, in his turn. Strain a step For ever, yet gain no step? Are we such, We cannot, with our admirations even, Our tip-toe aspirations, touch a thing That’s higher than we? is all a dismal flat, And God alone above each,—as the sun O’er level lagunes, to make them shine and stink,— Laying stress upon us with immediate flame, While we respond with our miasmal fog, And call it mounting higher, because we grow More highly fatal? Tush, Aurora Leigh! You wear your sackcloth looped in Cæsar’s way, And brag your failings as mankind’s. Be still. There is what’s higher, in this very world, Than you can live, or catch at. Stand aside, And look at others—instance little Kate! She’ll make a perfect wife for Carrington. She always has been looking round the earth For something good and green to alight upon And nestle into, with those soft-winged eyes Subsiding now beneath his manly hand ’Twixt trembling lids of inexpressive joy: I will not scorn her, after all, too much, That so much she should love me. A wise man Can pluck a leaf, and find a lecture in ’t; And I, too, ... God has made me,—I’ve a heart That’s capable of worship, love, and loss; We say the same of Shakspeare’s. I’ll be meek, And learn to reverence, even this poor myself.
The book, too—pass it. ‘A good book,’ says he, ‘And you a woman.’ I had laughed at that, But long since. I’m a woman,—it is true; Alas, and woe to us, when we feel it most! Then, least care have we for the crowns and goals, And compliments on writing our good books.
The book has some truth in it, I believe: And truth outlives pain, as the soul does life. I know we talk our Phædons to the end Through all the dismal faces that we make, O’er-wrinkled with dishonouring agony From any mortal drug. I have written truth, And I a woman; feebly, partially, Inaptly in presentation, Romney’ll add, Because a woman. For the truth itself, That’s neither man’s nor woman’s, but just God’s; None else has reason to be proud of truth: Himself will see it sifted, disenthralled, And kept upon the height and in the light, As far as, and no farther, than ’tis truth; For,—now He has left off calling firmaments And strata, flowers and creatures, very good,— He says it still of truth, which is His own.
Truth, so far, in my book;—the truth which draws Through all things upwards; that a twofold world Must go to a perfect cosmos. Natural things And spiritual,—who separates those two In art, in morals, or the social drift, Tears up the bond of nature and brings death, Paints futile pictures, writes unreal verse, Leads vulgar days, deals ignorantly with men, Is wrong, in short, at all points. We divide This apple of life, and cut it through the pips,— The perfect round which fitted Venus’ hand Has perished utterly as if we ate Both halves. Without the spiritual, observe, The natural’s impossible;—no form, No motion! Without sensuous, spiritual Is inappreciable;—no beauty or power! And in this twofold sphere the twofold man (And still the artist is intensely a man) Holds firmly by the natural, to reach The spiritual beyond it,—fixes still The type with mortal vision, to pierce through, With eyes immortal, to the antetype Some call the ideal,—better called the real, And certain to be called so presently When things shall have their names. Look long enough On any peasant’s face here, coarse and lined, You’ll catch Antinous somewhere in that clay, As perfect-featured as he yearns at Rome From marble pale with beauty; then persist, And, if your apprehension’s competent, You’ll find some fairer angel at his back, As much exceeding him, as he the boor, And pushing him with empyreal disdain For ever out of sight. Ay, Carrington Is glad of such a creed! an artist must, Who paints a tree, a leaf, a common stone, With just his hand, and finds it suddenly A-piece with and conterminous to his soul. Why else do these things move him, leaf or stone? The bird’s not moved, that pecks at a spring-shoot; Nor yet the horse, before a quarry, a-graze: But man, the two-fold creature, apprehends The two-fold manner, in and outwardly, And nothing in the world comes single to him, A mere itself,—cup, column, or candlestick, All patterns of what shall be in the Mount; The whole temporal show related royally, And built up to eterne significance Through the open arms of God. ‘There’s nothing great Nor small,’ has said a poet of our day, (Whose voice will ring beyond the curfew of eve And not be thrown out by the matin’s bell) And truly, I reiterate, ... nothing’s small! No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee, But finds some coupling with the spinning stars; No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere; No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim: And,—glancing on my own thin, veinéd wrist,— In such a little tremour of the blood The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul Doth utter itself distinct. Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees, takes off his shoes; The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries, And daub their natural faces unaware More and more, from the first similitude.
Truth, so far, in my book! a truth which draws From all things upwards. I, Aurora, still Have felt it hound me through the wastes of life As Jove did Io: and, until that Hand Shall overtake me wholly, and, on my head, Lay down its large unfluctuating peace, The feverish gad-fly pricks me up and down, It must be. Art’s the witness of what Is Behind this show. If this world’s show were all, Then imitation would be all in Art; There, Jove’s hand gripes us!—For we stand here, we, If genuine artists, witnessing for God’s Complete, consummate, undivided work: —That not a natural flower can grow on earth, Without a flower upon the spiritual side, Substantial, archetypal, all a-glow With blossoming causes,—not so far away, That we, whose spirit-sense is somewhat cleared, May not catch something of the bloom and breath,— Too vaguely apprehended, though indeed Still apprehended, consciously or not, And still transferred to picture, music, verse, For thrilling audient and beholding souls By signs and touches which are known to souls,— How known, they know not,—why, they cannot find, So straight call out on genius, say, ‘A man Produced this,’—when much rather they should say, ‘’Tis insight, and he saw this.’ Thus is Art Self-magnified in magnifying a truth Which, fully recognised, would change the world And shift its morals. If a man could feel, Not one day, in the artist’s ecstasy, But every day, feast, fast, or working-day, The spiritual significance burn through The hieroglyphic of material shows, Henceforward he would paint the globe with wings, And reverence fish and fowl, the bull, the tree, And even his very body as a man,— Which now he counts so vile, that all the towns Make offal of their daughters for its use On summer-nights, when God is sad in heaven To think what goes on in his recreant world He made quite other; while that moon He made To shine there, at the first love’s covenant, Shines still, convictive as a marriage-ring Before adulterous eyes. How sure it is, That, if we say a true word, instantly We feel ’tis God’s, not ours, and pass it on As bread at sacrament, we taste and pass Nor handle for a moment, as indeed We dared to set up any claim to such! And I—my poem;—let my readers talk; I’m closer to it—I can speak as well: I’ll say, with Romney, that the book is weak, The range uneven, the points of sight obscure, The music interrupted. Let us go. The end of woman (or of man, I think) Is not a book. Alas, the best of books Is but a word in Art, which soon grows cramped, Stiff, dubious-statured with the weight of years, And drops an accent or digamma down Some cranny of unfathomable time, Beyond the critic’s reaching. Art itself, We’ve called the higher life, still must feel the soul Live past it. For more’s felt than is perceived, And more’s perceived than can be interpreted, And Love strikes higher with his lambent flame Than Art can pile the faggots. Is it so? When Jove’s hand meets us with composing touch, And when, at last, we are hushed and satisfied,— Then, Io does not call it truth, but love? Well, well! my father was an Englishman: My mother’s blood in me is not so strong That I should bear this stress of Tuscan noon And keep my wits. The town, there, seems to seethe In this Medæan boil-pot of the sun, And all the patient hills are bubbling round As if a prick would leave them flat. Does heaven Keep far off, not to set us in a blaze? Not so,—let drag your fiery fringes, heaven, And burn us up to quiet! Ah, we know Too much here, not to know what’s best for peace; We have too much light here, not to want more fire To purify and end us. We talk, talk, Conclude upon divine philosophies, And get the thanks of men for hopeful books; Whereat we take our own life up, and ... pshaw! Unless we piece it with another’s life, (A yard of silk to carry out our lawn) As well suppose my little handkerchief Would cover Samminiato, church and all, If out I threw it past the cypresses, As, in this ragged, narrow life of mine, Contain my own conclusions. But at least We’ll shut up the persiani, and sit down, And when my head’s done aching, in the cool, Write just a word to Kate and Carrington. May joy be with them! she has chosen well, And he not ill. I should be glad, I think, Except for Romney. Had he married Kate, I surely, surely, should be very glad. This Florence sits upon me easily, With native air and tongue. My graves are calm, And do not too much hurt me. Marian’s good, Gentle and loving,—lets me hold the child, Or drags him up the hills to find me flowers And fill those vases, ere I’m quite awake,— The grandiose red tulips, which grow wild, Or else my purple lilies, Dante blew To a larger bubble with his prophet-breath; Or one of those tall flowering reeds which stand In Arno like a sheaf of sceptres, left By some remote dynasty of dead gods, To suck the stream for ages and get green, And blossom wheresoe’er a hand divine Had warmed the place with ichor. Such I’ve found At early morning, laid across my bed, And woke up pelted with a childish laugh Which even Marian’s low precipitous ‘hush’ Had vainly interposed to put away,— While I, with shut eyes, smile and motion for The dewy kiss that’s very sure to come From mouth and cheeks, the whole child’s face at once Dissolved on mine,—as if a nosegay burst Its string with the weight of roses overblown, And dropt upon me. Surely I should be glad. The little creature almost loves me now, And calls my name ... ‘Alola,’ stripping off The rs like thorns, to make it smooth enough To take between his dainty, milk-fed lips, God love him! I should certainly be glad, Except, God help me, that I’m sorrowful, Because of Romney. Romney, Romney! Well, This grows absurd!—too like a tune that runs I’ the head, and forces all things in the world, Wind, rain, the creaking gnat or stuttering fly, To sing itself and vex you;—yet perhaps A paltry tune you never fairly liked, Some ‘I’d be a butterfly,’ or ‘C’est l’amour:’ We’re made so,—not such tyrants to ourselves, We are not slaves to nature. Some of us Are turned, too, overmuch like some poor verse With a trick of ritournelle: the same thing goes And comes back ever. Vincent Carrington Is ‘sorry,’ and I’m sorry; but he’s strong To mount from sorrow to his heaven of love, And when he says at moments, ‘Poor, poor Leigh, Who’ll never call his own, so true a heart, So fair a face even,’—he must quickly lose The pain of pity in the blush he has made By his very pitying eyes. The snow, for him, Has fallen in May, and finds the whole earth warm, And melts at the first touch of the green grass.