Aurora Leigh: Book Three

"To-day thou girdest up thy loins thyself     And goest where thou wouldest: presently     Others shall gird thee," said the Lord, "to go     Where thou wouldst not." He spoke to Peter thus,     To signify the death which he should die     When crucified head downward.     If He spoke     To Peter then, He speaks to us the same;     The word suits many different martyrdoms,     And signifies a multiform of death,     Although we scarcely die apostles, we,     And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.     For 'tis not in mere death that men die most,     And, after our first girding of the loins     In youth's fine linen and fair broidery     To run up hill and meet the rising sun,     We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,     While others gird us with the violent bands     Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,     Reversing our straight nature, lifting up     Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts,     Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world.     Yet He can pluck us from that shameful cross.     God, set our feet low and our forehead high,     And show us how a man was made to walk!     Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed.     The room does very well; I have to write     Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away;     Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room,     Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters! throw them down     At once, as I must have them, to be sure,     Whether I bid you never bring me such     At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse;     You choose to bring them, as I choose perhaps     To throw them in the fire. Now get to bed,     And dream, if possible, I am not cross.     Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,     A mere mere woman, a mere flaccid nerve,     A kerchief left out all night in the rain,     Turned soft so, overtasked and overstrained     And overlived in this close London life!     And yet I should be stronger.     Never burn     Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare     With red seals from the table, saying each,     "Here's something that you know not." Out, alas,     'Tis scarcely that the world's more good and wise     Or even straighter and more consequent     Since yesterday at this time yet, again,     If but one angel spoke from Ararat     I should be very sorry not to hear:     So open all the letters! let me read.     Blanche Ord, the writer in the "Lady's Fan,"     Requests my judgment on . . . that, afterwards.     Kate Ward desires the model of my cloak,     And signs "Elisha to you." Pringle Sharpe     Presents his work on "Social Conduct," craves     A little money for his pressing debts . .     From me, who scarce have money for my needs;     Art's fiery chariot which we journey in     Being apt to singe our singing-robes to holes,     Although you ask me for my cloak, Kate Ward!     Here's Rudgely knows it, editor and scribe;     He's "forced to marry where his heart is not,     Because the purse lacks where he lost his heart."     Ah, lost it because no one picked it up;     That's really loss, (and passable impudence).     My critic Hammond flatters prettily,     And wants another volume like the last.     My critic Belfair wants another book     Entirely different, which will sell (and live?),     A striking book, yet not a startling book,     The public blames originalities     (You must not pump spring-water unawares     Upon a gracious public full of nerves):     Good things, not subtle, new yet orthodox,     As easy reading as the dog-eared page     That's fingered by said public fifty years,     Since first taught spelling by its grandmother,     And yet a revelation in some sort:     That's hard, my critic Belfair. So what next?     My critic Stokes objects to abstract thoughts;     "Call a man John, a woman Joan," says he,     "And do not prate so of humanities:"     Whereat I call my critic simply, Stokes.     My critic Jobson recommends more mirth     Because a cheerful genius suits the times,     And all true poets laugh unquenchably     Like Shakespeare and the gods. That's very hard.     The gods may laugh, and Shakespeare; Dante smiled     With such a needy heart on two pale lips,     We cry "Weep rather, Dante." Poems are     Men, if true poems: and who dares exclaim     At any man's door, "Here, 'tis understood     The thunder fell last week and killed a wife     And scared a sickly husband what of that?     Get up, be merry, shout and clap your hands,     Because a cheerful genius suits the times "?     None says so to the man, and why indeed     Should any to the poem? A ninth seal;     The apocalypse is drawing to a close.     Ha, this from Vincent Carrington, "Dear friend,     I want good counsel. Will you lend me wings     To raise me to the subject, in a sketch     I'll bring to-morrow may I? at eleven?     A poet's only born to turn to use:     So save you! for the world . . . and Carrington."     "(Writ after.) Have you heard of Romney Leigh,     Beyond what's said of him in newspapers,     His phalansteries there, his speeches here,     His pamphlets, pleas, and statements, everywhere?     He dropped me long ago, but no one drops     A golden apple though indeed one day     You hinted that, but jested. Well, at least     You know Lord Howe who sees him . . . whom he sees     And you see and I hate to see, for Howe     Stands high upon the brink of theories,     Observes the swimmers and cries 'Very fine,'     But keeps dry linen equally, unlike     That gallant breaster, Romney. Strange it is,     Such sudden madness seizing a young man     To make earth over again, while I'm content     To make the pictures. Let me bring the sketch.     A tiptoe Danae, overbold and hot,     Both arms a-flame to meet her wishing Jove     Halfway, and burn him faster down; the face     And breasts upturned and straining, the loose locks     All glowing with the anticipated gold.     Or here's another on the self-same theme.     She lies here flat upon her prison-floor,     The long hair swathed about her to the heel     Like wet seaweed. You dimly see her through     The glittering haze of that prodigious rain,     Half blotted out of nature by a love     As heavy as fate. I'll bring you either sketch.     I think, myself, the second indicates     More passion."     Surely. Self is put away,     And calm with abdication. She is Jove,     And no more Danae greater thus. Perhaps     The painter symbolises unaware     Two states of the recipient artist-soul,     One, forward, personal, wanting reverence,     Because aspiring only. We'll be calm,     And know that, when indeed our Joves come down,     We all turn stiller than we have ever been.     Kind Vincent Carrington. I'll let him come.     He talks of Florence, and may say a word     Of something as it chanced seven years ago,     A hedgehog in the path, or a lame bird,     In those green country walks, in that good time     When certainly I was so miserable . . .     I seem to have missed a blessing ever since.     The music soars within the little lark,     And the lark soars. It is not thus with men     We do not make our places with our strains,     Content, while they rise, to remain behind     Alone on earth instead of so in heaven.     No matter; I bear on my broken tale.     When Romney Leigh and I had parted thus,     I took a chamber up three flights of stairs     Not far from being as steep as some larks climb,     And there, in a certain house in Kensington,     Three years I lived and worked. Get leave to work     In this world 'tis the best you get at all;     For God, in cursing, gives us better gifts     Than men in benediction. God says, "Sweat     For foreheads," men say "crowns," and so we are crowned,     Ay, gashed by some tormenting circle of steel     Which snaps with a secret spring. Get work, get work;     Be sure 'tis better than what you work to get.     Serene and unafraid of solitude,     I worked the short days out, and watched the sun     On lurid morns or monstrous afternoons     (Like some Druidic idol's fiery brass     With fixed unflickering outline of dead heat,     From which the blood of wretches pent inside     Seems oozing forth to incarnadine the air)     Push out through fog with his dilated disk,     And startle the slant roofs and chimney-pots     With splashes of fierce colour. Or I saw     Fog only, the great tawny weltering fog,     Involve the passive city, strangle it     Alive, and draw it off into the void,     Spires, bridges, streets, and squares, as if a sponge     Had wiped out London, or as noon and night     Had clapped together and utterly struck out     The intermediate time, undoing themselves     In the act. Your city poets see such things     Not despicable. Mountains of the south,     When drunk and mad with elemental wines     They rend the seamless mist and stand up bare,     Make fewer singers, haply. No one sings,     Descending Sinai: on Parnassus mount     You take a mule to climb and not a muse     Except in fable and figure: forests chant     Their anthems to themselves, and leave you dumb.     But sit in London at the day's decline,     And view the city perish in the mist     Like Pharaoh's armaments in the deep Red Sea,     The chariots, horsemen, footmen, all the host,     Sucked down and choked to silence then, surprised     By a sudden sense of vision and of tune,     You feel as conquerors though you did not fight,     And you and Israel's other singing girls,     Ay, Miriam with them, sing the song you choose.     I worked with patience, which means almost power:     I did some excellent things indifferently,     Some bad things excellently. Both were praised,     The latter loudest. And by such a time     That I myself had set them down as sins     Scarce worth the price of sackcloth, week by week     Arrived some letter through the sedulous post,     Like these I've read, and yet dissimilar,     With pretty maiden seals, initials twined     Of lilies, or a heart marked Emily     (Convicting Emily of being all heart);     Or rarer tokens from young bachelors,     Who wrote from college with the same goose-quill,     Suppose, they had just been plucked of, and a snatch     From Horace, "Collegisse juvat," set     Upon the first page. Many a letter, signed     Or unsigned, showing the writers at eighteen     Had lived too long, although a muse should help     Their dawn by holding candles, compliments     To smile or sigh at. Such could pass with me     No more than coins from Moscow circulate     At Paris: would ten roubles buy a tag     Of ribbon on the boulevard, worth a sou?     I smiled that all this youth should love me, sighed     That such a love could scarcely raise them up     To love what was more worthy than myself;     Then sighed again, again, less generously,     To think the very love they lavished so     Proved me inferior. The strong loved me not,     And he . . . my cousin Romney . . . did not write.     I felt the silent finger of his scorn     Prick every bubble of my frivolous fame     As my breath blew it, and resolve it back     To the air it came from. Oh, I justified     The measure he had taken of my height:     The thing was plain he was not wrong a line;     I played at art, made thrusts with a toy-sword,     Amused the lads and maidens.     Came a sigh     Deep, hoarse with resolution, I would work     To better ends, or play in earnest. "Heavens,     I think I should be almost popular     If this went on!" I ripped my verses up,     And found no blood upon the rapier's point;     The heart in them was just an embryo's heart     Which never yet had beat, that it should die;     Just gasps of make-believe galvanic life;     Mere tones, inorganised to any tune.     And yet I felt it in me where it burnt,     Like those hot fire-seeds of creation held     In Jove's clenched palm before the worlds were sown,     But I I was not Juno even! my hand     Was shut in weak convulsion, woman's ill,     And when I yearned to loose a finger lo,     The nerve revolted. 'Tis the same even now:     This hand may never, haply, open large,     Before the spark is quenched, or the palm charred,     To prove the power not else than by the pain.     It burnt, it burns 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-veind 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 cyclopdias, 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 afraid 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 value what's 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 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 soires? Not in the least.     Roar softly at me; I am frivolous,     I dare say; I have played at wild-beast shows     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 for 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, to-day.     '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 Mayfair 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'm 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 outrageous 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 Elyses 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."     "And I, myself,     Of being worthy of him with any love:     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 Dancing Faun     (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 godlike virtues and heroic aims     Subjoined to limping possibilities     Of mismade human nature. Grant the man     Twice godlike, 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!     For 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, even you     May call his choice unworthy."     "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 gowns-men'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 Csar 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. And yet     Mine did more, for I read half Fourier through,     Proudhon, Considrant, 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 face, he merely warmed his feet at it:     Just deigned to let my carriage stop him short     In park or street, he leaning on the door     With news of the committee which sat last     On pickpockets at suck."     "You jest you jest."     "As martyrs jest, dear (if you 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! 'tis 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 it 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 fantasy.' At which     He grew so pale, dear, . . . to the lips, I knew     I had touched him. 'Do you know her,' he inquired,     '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 Saint 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."     She knit her restless forehead. "Then, despite,     Aurora, that most radiant morning name,     You're dull as any London afternoon.     I wanted time, and gained it, wanted you,     And gain you! you will come and see the girl     In whose most prodigal eyes the lineal pearl     And pride of all your lofty race of Leighs     Is destined to solution. Authorised     By sight and knowledge, then, you'll speak your mind,     And prove to Romney, in your brilliant way,     He'll wrong the people and posterity     (Say such a thing is bad for me and you,     And you fail utterly), by concluding thus     An execrable marriage. Break it up,     Disroot it peradventure presently     We'll plant a better fortune in its place.     Be good to me, Aurora, scorn me less     For saying the thing I should not. Well I know     I should not. I have kept, as others have,     The iron rule of womanly reserve     In lip and life, till now: I wept a week     Before I came here." Ending, she was pale;     The last words, haughtily said, were tremulous.     This palfrey pranced in harness, arched her neck,     And, only by the foam upon the bit,     You saw she champed against it.     Then I rose.     "I love love: truth's no cleaner thing than love.     I comprehend a love so fiery hot     It burns its natural veil of august shame,     And stands sublimely in the nude, as chaste     As Medicean Venus. But I know,     A love that burns through veils will burn through masks     And shrivel up treachery. What, love and lie!     Nay go to the opera! your love's curable."     "I love and lie?" she said "I lie, forsooth?"     And beat her taper foot upon the floor,     And smiled against the shoe, "You're hard, Miss Leigh,     Unversed in current phrases. Bowling greens     Of poets are fresher than the world's highways:     Forgive me that I rashly blew the dust     Which dims our hedges even, in your eyes,     And vexed you so much. You find, probably,     No evil in this marriage, rather good     Of innocence, to pastoralise in song:     You'll give the bond your signature, perhaps,     Beneath the lady's mark, indifferent     That Romney chose a wife could write her name,     In witnessing he loved her."     "Loved!" I cried;     "Who tells you that he wants a wife to love?     He gets a horse to use, not love, I think:     There's work for wives as well, and after, straw,     When men are liberal. For myself, you err     Supposing power in me to break this match.     I could not do it to save Romney's life,     And would not to save mine."     "You take it so,"     She said, "farewell then. Write your books in peace,     As far as may be for some secret stir     Now obvious to me, for, most obviously,     In coming hither I mistook the way."     Whereat she touched my hand and bent her head,     And floated from me like a silent cloud     That leaves the sense of thunder.     I drew breath,     Oppressed in my deliverance. After all,     This woman breaks her social system up     For love, so counted the love possible     To such, and lilies are still lilies, pulled     By smutty hands, though spotted from their white;     And thus she is better haply, of her kind,     Than Romney Leigh, who lives by diagrams,     And crosses out the spontaneities     Of all his individual, personal life     With formal universals. As if man     Were set upon a high stool at a desk     To keep God's books for Him in red and black,     And feel by millions! What, if even God     Were chiefly God by living out Himself     To an individualism of the Infinite,     Eterne, intense, profuse, still throwing up     The golden spray of multitudinous worlds     In measure to the proclive weight and rush     Of His inner nature, the spontaneous love     Still proof and outflow of spontaneous life?     Then live, Aurora.     Two hours afterward,     Within Saint Margaret's Court I stood alone,     Close-veiled. A sick child, from an ague-fit,     Whose wasted right hand gambled 'gainst his left     With an old brass button in a blot of sun,     Jeered weakly at me as I passed across     The uneven pavement; while a woman, rouged     Upon the angular cheek-bones, kerchief torn,     Thin dangling locks, and flat lascivious mouth,     Cursed at a window both ways, in and out,     By turns some bed-rid creature and myself,     "Lie still there, mother! liker the dead dog     You'll be to-morrow. What, we pick our way,     Fine madam, with those damnable small feet!     We cover up our face from doing good,     As if it were our purse! What brings you here,     My lady? Is't to find my gentleman     Who visits his tame pigeon in the eaves?     Our cholera catch you with its cramps and spasms,     And tumble up your good clothes, veil and all,     And turn your whiteness dead-blue." I looked up;     I think I could have walked through hell that day,     And never flinched. "The dear Christ comfort you,"     I said, "you must have been most miserable     To be so cruel," and I emptied out     My purse upon the stones: when, as I had cast     The last charm in the cauldron, the whole court     Went boiling, bubbling up, from all its doors     And windows, with a hideous wail of laughs     And roar of oaths, and blows perhaps . . . I passed     Too quickly for distinguishing . . . and pushed     A little side-door hanging on a hinge,     And plunged into the dark, and groped and climbed     The long, steep, narrow stair 'twixt broken rail     And mildewed wall that let the plaster drop     To startle me in the blackness. Still, up, up!     So high lived Romney's bride. I paused at last     Before a low door in the roof, and knocked.     There came an answer like a hurried dove     "So soon? can that be Mister Leigh? so soon?"     And, as I entered, an ineffable face     Met mine upon the threshold. "Oh, not you,     Not you!" the dropping of the voice implied;     "Then, if not you, for me not any one."     I looked her in the eyes, and held her hands,     And said "I am his cousin, Romney Leigh's;     And here I come to see my cousin too."     She touched me with her face and with her voice,     This daughter of the people. Such soft flowers     From such rough roots? The people, under there,     Can sin so, curse so, look so, smell so . . . faugh!     Yet have such daughters?     Nowise beautiful     Was Marian Erle. She was not white nor brown,     But could look either, like a mist that changed     According to being shone on more or less:     The hair, too, ran its opulence of curls     In doubt 'twixt dark and bright, nor left you clear     To name the colour. Too much hair perhaps     (I'll name a fault here) for so small a head,     Which seemed to droop on that side and on this,     As a full-blown rose uneasy with its weight     Though not a wind should trouble it. Again,     The dimple in the cheek had better gone     With redder, fuller rounds; and somewhat large     The mouth was, though the milky little teeth     Dissolved it to so infantine a smile.     For soon it smiled at me; the eyes smiled too,     But 'twas as if remembering they had wept,     And knowing they should, some day, weep again.     We talked. She told me all her story out,     Which I'll re-tell with fuller utterance,     As coloured and confirmed in after times     By others and herself too. Marian Erle     Was born upon the ledge of Malvern Hill,     To eastward, in a hut built up at night,     To evade the landlord's eye, of mud and turf,     Still liable, if once he looked that way,     To being straight levelled, scattered by his foot,     Like any other anthill. Born, I say;     God sent her to His world, commissioned right,     Her human testimonials fully signed,     Not scant in soul complete in lineaments;     But others had to swindle her a place     To wail in when she had come. No place for her,     By man's law! born an outlaw was this babe;     Her first cry in our strange and strangling air,     When cast in spasms out by the shuddering womb,     Was wrong against the social code, forced wrong:     What business had the baby to cry there?     I tell her story and grow passionate.     She, Marian, did not tell it so, but used     Meek words that made no wonder of herself     For being so sad a creature. "Mister Leigh     "Considered truly that such things should change.     "They will, in heaven but meantime, on the earth,     "There's none can like a nettle as a pink,     "Except himself. We're nettles, some of us,     "And give offence by the act of springing up;     "And, if we leave the damp side of the wall,     "The hoes, of course, are on us." So she said.     Her father earned his life by random jobs     Despised by steadier workmen keeping swine     On commons, picking hops, or hurrying on     The harvest at wet seasons, or, at need,     Assisting the Welsh drovers, when a drove     Of startled horses plunged into the mist     Below the mountain-road, and sowed the wind     With wandering neighings. In between the gaps     Of such irregular work he drank and slept,     And cursed his wife because, the pence being out,     She could not buy more drink. At which she turned     (The worm), and beat her baby in revenge     For her own broken heart. There's not a crime     But takes its proper change out still in crime     If once rung on the counter of this world:     Let sinners look to it.     Yet the outcast child,     For whom the very mother's face forwent     The mother's special patience, lived and grew;     Learnt early to cry low, and walk alone,     With that pathetic vacillating roll     Of the infant body on the uncertain feet     (The earth being felt unstable ground so soon),     At which most women's arms unclose at once     With irrepressive instinct. Thus, at three,     This poor weaned kid would run off from the fold,     This babe would steal off from the mother's chair,     And, creeping through the golden walls of gorse,     Would find some keyhole toward the secresy     Of Heaven's high blue, and, nestling down, peer out     Oh, not to catch the angels at their games,     She had never heard of angels, but to gaze     She knew not why, to see she knew not what,     A-hungering outward from the barren earth     For something like a joy. She liked, she said,     To dazzle black her sight against the sky,     For then, it seemed, some grand blind Love came down,     And groped her out, and clasped her with a kiss;     She learnt God that way, and was beat for it     Whenever she went home, yet came again,     As surely as the trapped hare, getting free,     Returns to his form. This grand blind Love, she said,     This skyey father and mother both in one,     Instructed her and civilised her more     Than even Sunday-school did afterward,     To which a lady sent her to learn books     And sit upon a long bench in a row     With other children. Well, she laughed sometimes     To see them laugh and laugh and maul their texts;     But ofter she was sorrowful with noise     And wondered if their mothers beat them hard     That ever they should laugh so. There was one     She loved indeed, Rose Bell, a seven years' child,     So pretty and clever, who read syllables     When Marian was at letters; she would laugh     At nothing hold your finger up, she laughed,     Then shook her curls down over eyes and mouth     To hide her make-mirth from the school-master:     And Rose's pelting glee, as frank as rain     On cherry-blossoms, brightened Marian too,     To see another merry whom she loved.     She whispered once (the children side by side,     With mutual arms entwined about their necks)     "Your mother lets you laugh so?" "Ay," said Rose,     "She lets me. She was dug into the ground     Six years since, I being but a yearling wean.     Such mothers let us play and lose our time,     And never scold nor beat us! Don't you wish     You had one like that?" There, Marian breaking off     Looked suddenly in my face. "Poor Rose," said she,     "I heard her laugh last night in Oxford Street.     I'd pour out half my blood to stop that laugh.     Poor Rose, poor Rose!" said Marian.     She resumed.     It tried her, when she had learnt at Sunday-school     What God was, what He wanted from us all,     And how in choosing sin we vexed the Christ,     To go straight home and hear her father pull     The Name down on us from the thunder-shelf,     Then drink away his soul into the dark     From seeing judgment. Father, mother, home,     Were God and heaven reversed to her: the more     She knew of Right, the more she guessed their wrong:     Her price paid down for knowledge, was to know     The vileness of her kindred: through her heart,     Her filial and tormented heart, henceforth,     They struck their blows at virtue. Oh, 'tis hard     To learn you have a father up in heaven     By a gathering certain sense of being, on earth,     Still worse than orphaned: 'tis too heavy a grief,     The having to thank God for such a joy!     And so passed Marian's life from year to year.     Her parents took her with them when they tramped,     Dodged lanes and heaths, frequented towns and fairs,     And once went farther and saw Manchester,     And once the sea, that blue end of the world,     That fair scroll-finis of a wicked book,     And twice a prison, back at intervals,     Returning to the hills. Hills draw like heaven,     And stronger sometimes, holding out their hands     To pull you from the vile flats up to them.     And though perhaps these strollers still strolled back,     As sheep do, simply that they knew the way,     They certainly felt bettered unaware     Emerging from the social smut of towns     To wipe their feet clean on the mountain turf.     In which long wanderings, Marian lived and learned,     Endured and learned. The people on the roads     Would stop and ask her why her eyes outgrew     Her cheeks, and if she meant to lodge the birds     In all that hair; and then they lifted her,     The miller in his cart, a mile or twain,     The butcher's boy on horseback. Often too     The pedlar stopped, and tapped her on the head     With absolute forefinger, brown and ringed,     And asked if peradventure she could read,     And when she answered "ay," would toss her down     Some stray odd volume from his heavy pack,     A Thomson's Seasons, mulcted of the Spring,     Or half a play of Shakespeare's, torn across     (She had to guess the bottom of a page     By just the top sometimes, as difficult,     As, sitting on the moon, to guess the earth!),     Or else a sheaf of leaves (for that small Ruth's     Small gleanings) torn out from the heart of books,     From Churchyard Elegies and Edens Lost,     From Burns, and Bunyan, Selkirk, and Tom Jones,     'Twas somewhat hard to keep the things distinct,     And oft the jangling influence jarred the child     Like looking at a sunset full of grace     Through a pothouse window while the drunken oaths     Went on behind her. But she weeded out     Her book-leaves, threw away the leaves that hurt     (First tore them small, that none should find a word),     And made a nosegay of the sweet and good     To fold within her breast, and pore upon     At broken moments of the noontide glare,     When leave was given her to untie her cloak     And rest upon the dusty highway's bank     From the road's dust: or oft, the journey done,     Some city friend would lead her by the hand     To hear a lecture at an institute.     And thus she had grown, this Marian Erle of ours,     To no book-learning, she was ignorant     Of authors, not in earshot of the things     Outspoken o'er the heads of common men     By men who are uncommon, but within     The cadenced hum of such, and capable     Of catching from the fringes of the wing     Some fragmentary phrases, here and there,     Of that fine music, which, being carried in     To her soul, had reproduced itself afresh     In finer motions of the lips and lids.     She said, in speaking of it, "If a flower     Were thrown you out of heaven at intervals,     You'd soon attain to a trick of looking up,     And so with her." She counted me her years,     Till I felt old; and then she counted me     Her sorrowful pleasures, till I felt ashamed.     She told me she was fortunate and calm     On such and such a season, sat and sewed,     With no one to break up her crystal thoughts,     While rhymes from lovely poems span around     Their ringing circles of ecstatic tune,     Beneath the moistened finger of the Hour.     Her parents called her a strange, sickly child,     Not good for much, and given to sulk and stare,     And smile into the hedges and the clouds,     And tremble if one shook her from her fit     By any blow, or word even. Out-door jobs     Went ill with her, and household quiet work     She was not born to. Had they kept the north,     They might have had their pennyworth out of her,     Like other parents, in the factories     (Your children work for you, not you for them,     Or else they better had been choked with air     The first breath drawn); but, in this tramping life,     Was nothing to be done with such a child     But tramp and tramp. And yet she knitted hose     Not ill, and was not dull at needlework;     And all the country people gave her pence     For darning stockings past their natural age,     And patching petticoats from old to new,     And other light work done for thrifty wives.     One day, said Marian the sun shone that day     Her mother had been badly beat, and felt     The bruises sore about her wretched soul     (That must have been): she came in suddenly,     And snatching in a sort of breathless rage     Her daughter's headgear comb, let down the hair     Upon her like a sudden waterfall,     Then drew her drenched and passive by the arm     Outside the hut they lived in. When the child     Could clear her blinded face from all that stream     Of tresses . . . there, a man stood, with beast's eyes     That seemed as they would swallow her alive     Complete in body and spirit, hair and all,     And burning stertorous breath that hurt her cheek,     He breathed so near. The mother held her tight,     Saying hard between her teeth "Why wench, why wench,     The squire speaks to you now the squire's too good:     He means to set you up, and comfort us.     Be mannerly at least." The child turned round     And looked up piteous in the mother's face     (Be sure that mother's death-bed will not want     Another devil to damn, than such a look),     "Oh, mother!" then, with desperate glance to heaven,     "God, free me from my mother," she shrieked out,     "These mothers are too dreadful." And, with force     As passionate as fear, she tore her hands,     Like lilies from the rocks, from hers and his,     And sprang down, bounded headlong down the steep,     Away from both away, if possible,     As far as God, away! They yelled at her,     As famished hounds at a hare. She heard them yell;     She felt her name hiss after her from the hills,     Like shot from guns. On, on. And now she had cast     The voices off with the uplands. On. Mad fear     Was running in her feet and killing the ground;     The white roads curled as if she burnt them up,     The green fields melted, wayside trees fell back     To make room for her. Then her head grew vexed;     Trees, fields, turned on her and ran after her;     She heard the quick pants of the hills behind,     Their keen air pricked her neck: she had lost her feet,     Could run no more, yet somehow went as fast,     The horizon red 'twixt steeples in the east     So sucked her forward, forward, while her heart     Kept swelling, swelling, till it swelled so big     It seemed to fill her body, when it burst     And overflowed the world and swamped the light;     "And now I am dead and safe," thought Marian Erle     She had dropped, she had fainted.     As the sense returned,     The night had passed not life's night. She was 'ware     Of heavy tumbling motions, creaking wheels,     The driver shouting to the lazy team     That swung their rankling bells against her brain,     While, through the waggon's coverture and chinks,     The cruel yellow morning pecked at her     Alive or dead upon the straw inside,     At which her soul ached back into the dark     And prayed, "no more of that." A waggoner     Had found her in a ditch beneath the moon,     As white as moonshine save for the oozing blood.     At first he thought her dead; but when he had wiped     The mouth and heard it sigh, he raised her up,     And laid her in his waggon in the straw,     And so conveyed her to the distant town     To which his business called himself, and left     That heap of misery at the hospital.     She stirred; the place seemed new and strange as death.     The white strait bed, with others strait and white,     Like graves dug side by side at measured lengths,     And quiet people walking in and out     With wonderful low voices and soft steps     And apparitional equal care for each,     Astonished her with order, silence, law.     And when a gentle hand held out a cup,     She took it, as you do at sacrament,     Half awed, half melted, not being used, indeed,     To so much love as makes the form of love     And courtesy of manners. Delicate drinks     And rare white bread, to which some dying eyes     Were turned in observation. O my God,     How sick we must be, ere we make men just!     I think it frets the saints in heaven to see     How many desolate creatures on the earth     Have learnt the simple dues of fellowship     And social comfort, in a hospital,     As Marian did. She lay there, stunned, half tranced,     And wished, at intervals of growing sense,     She might be sicker yet, if sickness made     The world so marvellous kind, the air so hushed,     And all her wake-time quiet as a sleep;     For now she understood (as such things were)     How sickness ended very oft in heaven     Among the unspoken raptures: yet more sick,     And surelier happy. Then she dropped her lids,     And, folding up her hands as flowers at night,     Would lose no moment of the blessed time.     She lay and seethed in fever many weeks,     But youth was strong and overcame the test;     Revolted soul and flesh were reconciled     And fetched back to the necessary day     And daylight duties. She could creep about     The long bare rooms, and stare out drearily     From any narrow window on the street,     Till some one who had nursed her as a friend     Said coldly to her, as an enemy,     "She had leave to go next week, being well enough,"     (While only her heart ached). "Go next week," thought she:     "Next week! how would it be with her next week,     Let out into that terrible street alone     Among the pushing people, . . . to go . . . where?"     One day, the last before the dreaded last,     Among the convalescents, like herself     Prepared to go next morning, she sat dumb,     And heard half absently the women talk,     How one was famished for her baby's cheeks,     "The little wretch would know her! a year old     And lively, like his father!" one was keen     To get to work, and fill some clamorous mouths;     And one was tender for her dear goodman     Who had missed her sorely, and one, querulous . . .     "Would pay backbiting neighbours who had dared     To talk about her as already dead,"     And one was proud . . . "and if her sweetheart Luke     Had left her for a ruddier face than hers     (The gossip would be seen through at a glance),     Sweet riddance of such sweethearts let him hang!     'Twere good to have been sick for such an end."     And while they talked, and Marian felt the worse     For having missed the worst of all their wrongs,     A visitor was ushered through the wards     And paused among the talkers. "When he looked     It was as if he spoke, and when he spoke     He sang perhaps," said Marian; "could she tell?     She only knew" (so much she had chronicled,     As seraphs might the making of the sun)     "That he who came and spake was Romney Leigh,     And then and there she saw and heard him first."     And when it was her turn to have the face     Upon her, all those buzzing pallid lips     Being satisfied with comfort when he changed     To Marian, saying "And you? you're going, where?"     She, moveless as a worm beneath a stone     Which some one's stumbling foot has spurned aside,     Writhed suddenly, astonished with the light,     And, breaking into sobs, cried "Where I go?     None asked me till this moment. Can I say     Where I go, when it has not seemed worth while     To God Himself, who thinks of every one,     To think of me and fix where I shall go?"     "So young," he gently asked her, "you have lost     Your father and your mother?"     "Both," she said,     "Both lost! my father was burnt up with gin     Or ever I sucked milk, and so is lost.     My mother sold me to a man last month,     And so my mother's lost, 'tis manifest.     And I, who fled from her for miles and miles,     As if I had caught sight of the fire of hell     Through some wild gap (she was my mother, sir),     It seems I shall be lost too, presently,     And so we end, all three of us."     "Poor child,"     He said, with such a pity in his voice,     It soothed her more than her own tears, "poor child!     'Tis simple that betrayal by mother's love     Should bring despair of God's too. Yet be taught,     He's better to us than many mothers are,     And children cannot wander beyond reach     Of the sweep of his white raiment. Touch and hold!     And if you weep still, weep where John was laid     While Jesus loved him."     "She could say the words,"     She told me, "exactly as he uttered them     A year back, since in any doubt or dark     They came out like the stars, and shone on her     With just their comfort. Common words, perhaps;     The ministers in church might say the same;     But he, he made the church with what he spoke,     The difference was the miracle," said she.     Then catching up her smile to ravishment,     She added quickly, "I repeat his words,     But not his tones: can any one repeat     The music of an organ, out of church?     And when he said 'poor child,' I shut my eyes     To feel how tenderly his voice broke through,     As the ointment-box broke on the Holy feet     To let out the rich medicative nard."     She told me how he had raised and rescued her     With reverent pity, as, in touching grief,     He touched the wounds of Christ, and made her feel     More self-respecting. Hope he called belief     In God, work, worship, therefore let us pray!     And thus, to snatch her soul from atheism,     And keep it stainless from her mother's face,     He sent her to a famous sempstress-house     Far off in London, there to work and hope.     With that, they parted. She kept sight of Heaven,     But not of Romney. He had good to do     To others: through the days and through the nights     She sewed and sewed and sewed. She drooped sometimes,     And wondered, while along the tawny light     She struck the new thread into her needle's eye,     How people without mothers on the hills     Could choose the town to live in! then she drew     The stitch, and mused how Romney's face would look,     And if 'twere likely he'd remember hers     When they two had their meeting after death.