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.’
I felt it hard to breathe, much less to speak. Nor word of mine was needed. Some one else Was there for answering. ‘Romney,’ she began, ‘My great good angel, Romney.’ Then at first, I knew that Marian Erle was beautiful. She stood there, still and pallid as a saint, Dilated, like a saint in ecstasy, As if the floating moonshine interposed Betwixt her foot and the earth, and raised her up To float upon it. ‘I had left my child, Who sleeps,’ she said, ‘and, having drawn this way, I heard you speaking, ... friend!—Confirm me now. You take this Marian, such as wicked men Have made her, for your honourable wife?’
The thrilling, solemn, proud, pathetic voice. He stretched his arms out toward the thrilling voice, As if to draw it on to his embrace. —‘I take her as God made her, and as men Must fail to unmake her, for my honoured wife.’
She never raised her eyes, nor took a step, But stood there in her place, and spoke again. —‘You take this Marian’s child, which is her shame In sight of men and women, for your child, Of whom you will not ever feel ashamed?’
The thrilling, tender, proud, pathetic voice. He stepped on toward it, still with outstretched arms, As if to quench upon his breast that voice. —‘May God so father me, as I do him, And so forsake me as I let him feel He’s orphaned haply. Here I take the child To share my cup, to slumber on my knee, To play his loudest gambol at my foot, To hold my finger in the public ways, Till none shall need inquire, ‘Whose child is this,’ The gesture saying so tenderly, ‘My own’.’
She stood a moment silent in her place; Then, turning toward me, very slow and cold— —‘And you,—what say you?—will you blame me much, If, careful for that outcast child of mine, I catch this hand that’s stretched to me and him, Nor dare to leave him friendless in the world Where men have stoned me? Have I not the right To take so mere an aftermath from life, Else found so wholly bare? Or is it wrong To let your cousin, for a generous bent, Put out his ungloved fingers among briars To set a tumbling bird’s-nest somewhat straight? You will not tell him, though we’re innocent We are not harmless?... and that both our harms Will stick to his good smooth noble life like burrs, Never to drop off though you shake the cloak? You’ve been my friend: you will not now be his? You’ve known him, that he’s worthy of a friend; And you’re his cousin, lady, after all, And therefore more than free to take his part, Explaining, since the nest is surely spoilt, And Marian what you know her,—though a wife, The world would hardly understand her case Of being just hurt and honest; while for him, ’Twould ever twit him with his bastard child And married harlot. Speak, while yet there’s time: You would not stand and let a good man’s dog Turn round and rend him, because his, and reared Of a generous breed,—and will you let his act, Because it’s generous? Speak. I’m bound to you, And I’ll be bound by only you, in this.’ The thrilling, solemn voice, so passionless, Sustained, yet low, without a rise or fall, As one who had authority to speak, And not as Marian. I looked up to feel If God stood near me, and beheld his heaven As blue as Aaron’s priestly robe appeared To Aaron when he took it off to die. And then I spoke—‘Accept the gift, I say, My sister Marian, and be satisfied. The hand that gives, has still a soul behind Which will not let it quail for having given, Though foolish worldlings talk they know not what, Of what they know not. Romney’s strong enough For this: do you be strong to know he’s strong: He stands on Right’s side; never flinch for him, As if he stood on the other. You’ll be bound By me? I am a woman of repute; No fly-blow gossip ever specked my life; My name is clean and open as this hand, Whose glove there’s not a man dares blab about, As if he had touched it freely:—here’s my hand To clasp your hand, my Marian, owned as pure! As pure,—as I’m a woman and a Leigh!— And, as I’m both, I’ll witness to the world That Romney Leigh is honoured in his choice, Who chooses Marian for his honoured wife.’
Her broad wild woodland eyes shot out a light; Her smile was wonderful for rapture. ‘Thanks, My great Aurora.’ Forward then she sprang, And dropping her impassioned spaniel head With all its brown abandonment of curls On Romney’s feet, we heard the kisses drawn Through sobs upon the foot, upon the ground— O Romney! O my angel! O unchanged, Though, since we’ve parted, I have past the grave! But Death itself could only better thee, Not change thee!—Thee I do not thank at all: I but thank God who made thee what thou art, So wholly godlike.’ When he tried in vain To raise her to his embrace, escaping thence As any leaping fawn from a huntsman’s grasp, She bounded off and ‘lighted beyond reach, Before him, with a staglike majesty Of soft, serene defiance,—as she knew He could not touch her, so was tolerant He had cared to try. She stood there with her great Drowned eyes, and dripping cheeks, and strange sweet smile That lived through all, as if one held a light Across a waste of waters,—shook her head To keep some thoughts down deeper in her soul,— Then, white and tranquil as a summer-cloud Which, having rained itself to a tardy peace, Stands still in heaven as if it ruled the day, Spoke out again—‘Although, my generous friend, Since last we met and parted, you’re unchanged, And, having promised faith to Marian Erle, Maintain it, as she were not changed at all; And though that’s worthy, though that’s full of balm To any conscious spirit of a girl Who once has loved you as I loved you once,— Yet still it will not make her ... if she’s dead, And gone away where none can give or take In marriage,—able to revive, return And wed you,—will it, Romney? Here’s the point; O friend, we’ll see it plainer: you and I Must never, never, never join hands so. Nay, let me say it,—for I said it first To God, and placed it, rounded to an oath, Far, far above the moon there, at His feet, As surely as I wept just now at yours,— We never, never, never join hands so. And now, be patient with me; do not think I’m speaking from a false humility. The truth is, I am grown so proud with grief, And He has said so often through his nights And through his mornings, ‘Weep a little still, Thou foolish Marian, because women must, But do not blush at all except for sin,’— That I, who felt myself unworthy once Of virtuous Romney and his high-born race, Have come to learn, ... a woman, poor or rich, Despised or honoured, is a human soul; And what her soul is,—that, she is herself, Although she should be spit upon of men, As is the pavement of the churches here, Still good enough to pray in. And, being chaste And honest, and inclined to do the right, And love the truth, and live my life out green And smooth beneath his steps, I should not fear To make him, thus, a less uneasy time Than many a happier woman. Very proud You see me. Pardon, that I set a trap To hear a confirmation in your voice ... Both yours and yours. It is so good to know ’Twas really God who said the same before: For thus it is in heaven, that first God speaks, And then his angels. Oh, it does me good, It wipes me clean and sweet from devil’s dirt, That Romney Leigh should think me worthy still Of being his true and honourable wife! Henceforth I need not say, on leaving earth, I had no glory in it. For the rest, The reason’s ready (master, angel, friend, Be patient with me) wherefore you and I Can never, never, never join hands so. I know you’ll not be angry like a man (For you are none) when I shall tell the truth,— Which is, I do not love you, Romney Leigh, I do not love you. Ah well! catch my hands, Miss Leigh, and burn into my eyes with yours,— I swear I do not love him. Did I once? ’Tis said that women have been bruised to death, And yet, if once they loved, that love of theirs Could never be drained out with all their blood: I’ve heard such things and pondered. Did I indeed Love once? or did I only worship? Yes, Perhaps, O friend, I set you up so high Above all actual good or hope of good, Or fear of evil, all that could be mine, I haply set you above love itself, And out of reach of these poor woman’s arms, Angelic Romney. What was in my thought? To be your slave, your help, your toy, your tool. To be your love ... I never thought of that. To give you love ... still less. I gave you love? I think I did not give you anything; I was but only yours,—upon my knees, All yours, in soul and body, in head and heart,— A creature you had taken from the ground, Still crumbling through your fingers to your feet To join the dust she came from. Did I love, Or did I worship? judge, Aurora Leigh! But, if indeed I loved, ’twas long ago,— So long! before the sun and moon were made, Before the hells were open,—ah, before I heard my child cry in the desert night, And knew he had no father. It may be, I’m not as strong as other women are, Who, torn and crushed, are not undone from love. It may be, I am colder than the dead, Who, being dead, love always. But for me Once killed, ... this ghost of Marian loves no more, No more ... except the child!... no more at all. I told your cousin, sir, that I was dead; And now, she thinks I’ll get up from my grave, And wear my chin-cloth for a wedding-veil, And glide along the churchyard like a bride, While all the dead keep whispering through the withes, ‘You would be better in your place with us, You pitiful corruption!’ At the thought, The damps break out on me like leprosy, Although I’m clean. Ay, clean as Marian Erle: As Marian Leigh, I know, I were not clean: I have not so much life that I should love, ... Except the child. Ah God! I could not bear To see my darling on a good man’s knees, And know by such a look, or such a sigh, Or such a silence, that he thought sometimes, ‘This child was fathered by some cursed wretch’ ... For, Romney,—angels are less tender-wise Than God and mothers: even you would think What we think never. He is ours, the child; And we would sooner vex a soul in heaven By coupling with it the dead body’s thought, It left behind it in a last month’s grave, Than, in my child, see other than ... my child. We only, never call him fatherless Who has God and his mother. O my babe, My pretty, pretty blossom, an ill-wind Once blew upon my breast! can any think I’d have another,—one called happier, A fathered child, with father’s love and race That’s worn as bold and open as a smile, To vex my darling when he’s asked his name And has no answer? What! a happier child Than mine, my best,—who laughed so loud to-night He could not sleep for pastime? Nay, I swear By life and love, that, if I lived like some, And loved like ... some ... ay, loved you, Romney Leigh, As some love (eyes that have wept so much, see clear), I’ve room for no more children in my arms; My kisses are all melted on one mouth; I would not push my darling to a stool To dandle babies. Here’s a hand, shall keep For ever clean without a marriage-ring, To tend my boy, until he cease to need One steadying finger of it, and desert (Not miss) his mother’s lap, to sit with men. And when I miss him (not he me) I’ll come And say, ‘Now give me some of Romney’s work, To help your outcast orphans of the world, And comfort grief with grief.’ For you, meantime, Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife, And open on each other your great souls,— I need not farther bless you. If I dared But strain and touch her in her upper sphere, And say, ‘Come down to Romney—pay my debt!’ I should be joyful with the stream of joy Sent through me. But the moon is in my face ... I dare not,—though I guess the name he loves; I’m learned with my studies of old days, Remembering how he crushed his under-lip When some one came and spoke, or did not come: Aurora, I could touch her with my hand, And fly, because I dare not.’ She was gone. He smiled so sternly that I spoke in haste. ‘Forgive her—she sees clearly for herself: Her instinct’s holy,’ ‘I forgive?’ he said, ‘I only marvel how she sees so sure, While others’ ... there he paused,—then hoarse, abrupt,— Aurora! you forgive us, her and me? For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal child, If once corrected by the thing I know, Had been unspoken; since she loves you well, Has leave to love you:—while for me, alas, If once or twice I let my heart escape This night, ... remember, where hearts slip and fall They break beside: we’re parting,—parting,—ah, You do not love, that you should surely know What that word means. Forgive, be tolerant; It had not been, but that I felt myself So safe in impuissance and despair, I could not hurt you though I tossed my arms And sighed my soul out. The most utter wretch Will choose his postures when he comes to die, However in the presence of a queen; And you’ll forgive me some unseemly spasms Which meant no more than dying. Do you think I had ever come here in my perfect mind, Unless I had come here, in my settled mind, Bound Marian’s, bound to keep the bond, and give My name, my house, my hand, the things I could, To Marian? For even I could give as much; Even I, affronting her exalted soul By a supposition that she wanted these, Could act the husband’s coat and hat set up To creak i’ the wind and drive the world-crows off From pecking in her garden. Straw can fill A hole to keep out vermin. Now, at last, I own heaven’s angels round her life suffice To fight the rats of our society, Without this Romney: I can see it at last; And here is ended my pretension which The most pretended. Over-proud of course, Even so!—but not so stupid ... blind ... that I, Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world Has set to meditate mistaken work, My dreary face against a dim blank wall Throughout man’s natural lifetime,—could pretend Or wish ... O love, I have loved you! O my soul, I have lost you!—but I swear by all yourself, And all you might have been to me these years, If that June-morning had not failed my hope,— I’m not so bestial, to regret that day This night,—this night, which still to you is fair; Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest Those stars above us, which I cannot see ...’