Aurora Leigh: Book Two

Times followed one another. Came a morn     I stood upon the brink of twenty years,     And looked before and after, as I stood     Woman and artist, either incomplete,     Both credulous of completion. There I held     The whole creation in my little cup,     And smiled with thirsty lips before I drank     "Good health to you and me, sweet neighbour mine,     And all these peoples."     I was glad, that day;     The June was in me, with its multitudes     Of nightingales all singing in the dark,     And rosebuds reddening where the calyx split.     I felt so young, so strong, so sure of God!     So glad, I could not choose be very wise!     And, old at twenty, was inclined to pull     My childhood backward in a childish jest     To see the face of 't once more, and farewell!     In which fantastic mood I bounded forth     At early morning, would not wait so long     As even to snatch my bonnet by the strings,     But, brushing a green trail across the lawn     With my gown in the dew, took will and way     Among the acacias of the shrubberies,     To fly my fancies in the open air     And keep my birthday, till my aunt awoke     To stop good dreams. Meanwhile I murmured on     As honeyed bees keep humming to themselves,     "The worthiest poets have remained uncrowned     Till death has bleached their foreheads to the bone;     And so with me it must be unless I prove     Unworthy of the grand adversity,     And certainly I would not fail so much.     What, therefore, if I crown myself to-day     In sport, not pride, to learn the feel of it,     Before my brows be numbed as Dante's own     To all the tender pricking of such leaves?     Such leaves! what leaves?"     I pulled the branches down     To choose from.     "Not the bay! I choose no bay     (The fates deny us if we are overbold),     Nor myrtle which means chiefly love; and love     Is something awful which one dares not touch     So early o' mornings. This verbena strains     The point of passionate fragrance; and hard by,     This guelder-rose, at far too slight a beck     Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.     Ah there's my choice, that ivy on the wall,     That headlong ivy! not a leaf will grow     But thinking of a wreath. Large leaves, smooth leaves,     Serrated like my vines, and half as green.     I like such ivy, bold to leap a height     'Twas strong to climb; as good to grow on graves     As twist about a thyrsus; pretty too     (And that's not ill) when twisted round a comb."     Thus speaking to myself, half singing it,     Because some thoughts are fashioned like a bell     To ring with once being touched, I drew a wreath     Drenched, blinding me with dew, across my brow,     And fastening it behind so, turning faced     . . . My public! cousin Romney with a mouth     Twice graver than his eyes.     I stood there fixed,     My arms up, like the caryatid, sole     Of some abolished temple, helplessly     Persistent in a gesture which derides     A former purpose. Yet my blush was flame,     As if from flax, not stone.     "Aurora Leigh,     The earliest of Auroras!"     Hand stretched out     I clasped, as shipwrecked men will clasp a hand,     Indifferent to the sort of palm. The tide     Had caught me at my pastime, writing down     My foolish name too near upon the sea     Which drowned me with a blush as foolish. "You,     My cousin!"     The smile died out in his eyes     And dropped upon his lips, a cold dead weight,     For just a moment, "Here's a book I found!     No name writ on it poems, by the form;     Some Greek upon the margin, lady's Greek     Without the accents. Read it? Not a word.     I saw at once the thing had witchcraft in't,     Whereof the reading calls up dangerous spirits:     I rather bring it to the witch."     "My book.     You found it" . . .     "In the hollow by the stream     That beech leans down into of which you said     The Oread in it has a Naiad's heart     And pines for waters."     "Thank you."     "Thanks to you     My cousin! that I have seen you not too much     Witch, scholar, poet, dreamer, and the rest,     To be a woman also."     With a glance     The smile rose in his eyes again and touched     The ivy on my forehead, light as air.     I answered gravely "Poets needs must be     Or men or women more's the pity."     "Ah,     But men, and still less women, happily,     Scarce need be poets. Keep to the green wreath,     Since even dreaming of the stone and bronze     Brings headaches, pretty cousin, and defiles     The clean white morning dresses."     "So you judge!     Because I love the beautiful I must     Love pleasure chiefly, and be overcharged     For ease and whiteness! well, you know the world,     And only miss your cousin, 'tis not much.     But learn this; I would rather take my part     With God's Dead, who afford to walk in white     Yet spread His glory, than keep quiet here     And gather up my feet from even a step     For fear to soil my gown in so much dust.     I choose to walk at all risks. Here, if heads     That hold a rhythmic thought, much ache perforce,     For my part I choose headaches, and today's     My birthday."     "Dear Aurora, choose instead     To cure them. You have balsams."     "I perceive.     The headache is too noble for my sex.     You think the heartache would sound decenter,     Since that's the woman's special, proper ache,     And altogether tolerable, except     To a woman."     Saying which, I loosed my wreath,     And swinging it beside me as I walked,     Half-petulant, half-playful, as we walked,     I sent a sidelong look to find his thought,     As falcon set on falconer's finger may,     With sidelong head, and startled, braving eye,     Which means, "You'll see you'll see! I'll soon take flight,     You shall not hinder." He, as shaking out     His hand and answering "Fly then," did not speak,     Except by such a gesture. Silently     We paced, until, just coming into sight     Of the house-windows, he abruptly caught     At one end of the swinging wreath, and said     "Aurora!" There I stopped short, breath and all.     "Aurora, let's be serious, and throw by     This game of head and heart. Life means, be sure,     Both heart and head, both active, both complete,     And both in earnest. Men and women make     The world, as head and heart make human life.     Work man, work woman, since there's work to do     In this beleaguered earth, for head and heart,     And thought can never do the work of love:     But work for ends, I mean for uses, not     For such sleek fringes (do you call them ends,     Still less God's glory?) as we sew ourselves     Upon the velvet of those baldaquins     Held 'twixt us and the sun. That book of yours,     I have not read a page of; but I toss     A rose up it falls calyx down, you see!     The chances are that, being a woman, young     And pure, with such a pair of large, calm eyes,     You write as well . . . and ill . . . upon the whole,     As other women. If as well, what then?     If even a little better, . . . still, what then?     We want the Best in art now, or no art.     The time is done for facile settings up     Of minnow gods, nymphs here and tritons there;     The polytheists have gone out in God,     That unity of Bests. No best, no God!     And so with art, we say. Give art's divine,     Direct, indubitable, real as grief,     Or leave us to the grief we grow ourselves     Divine by overcoming with mere hope     And most prosaic patience. You, you are young     As Eve with nature's daybreak on her face,     But this same world you are come to, dearest coz,     Has done with keeping birthdays, saves her wreaths     To hang upon her ruins, and forgets     To rhyme the cry with which she still beats back     Those savage, hungry dogs that hunt her down     To the empty grave of Christ. The world's hard pressed:     The sweat of labour in the early curse     Has (turning acrid in six thousand years)     Become the sweat of torture. Who has time,     An hour's time . . . think! to sit upon a bank     And hear the cymbal tinkle in white hands?     When Egypt's slain, I say, let Miriam sing!     Before where's Moses?"     "Ah, exactly that.     Where's Moses? is a Moses to be found?     You'll seek him vainly in the bulrushes,     While I in vain touch cymbals. Yet concede,     Such sounding brass has done some actual good     (The application in a woman's hand,     If that were credible, being scarcely spoilt,)     In colonising beehives."     "There it is!     You play beside a death-bed like a child,     Yet measure to yourself a prophet's place     To teach the living. None of all these things     Can women understand. You generalise     Oh, nothing, not even grief! Your quick-breathed hearts,     So sympathetic to the personal pang,     Close on each separate knife-stroke, yielding up     A whole life at each wound, incapable     Of deepening, widening a large lap of life     To hold the world-full woe. The human race     To you means, such a child, or such a man,     You saw one morning waiting in the cold,     Beside that gate, perhaps. You gather up     A few such cases, and when strong sometimes     Will write of factories and of slaves, as if     Your father were a negro, and your son     A spinner in the mills. All's yours and you,     All, coloured with your blood, or otherwise     Just nothing to you. Why, I call you hard     To general suffering. Here's the world half-blind     With intellectual light, half-brutalised     With civilisation, having caught the plague     In silks from Tarsus, shrieking east and west     Along a thousand railroads, mad with pain     And sin too! . . . does one woman of you all     (You who weep easily) grow pale to see     This tiger shake his cage? does one of you     Stand still from dancing, stop from stringing pearls,     And pine and die because of the great sum     Of universal anguish? Show me a tear     Wet as Cordelia's, in eyes bright as yours,     Because the world is mad. You cannot count,     That you should weep for this account, not you!     You weep for what you know. A red-haired child     Sick in a fever, if you touch him once,     Though but so little as with a finger-tip,     Will set you weeping; but a million sick . . .     You could as soon weep for the rule of three     Or compound fractions. Therefore, this same world,     Uncomprehended by you, must remain     Uninfluenced by you. Women as you are,     Mere women, personal and passionate,     You give us doating mothers, and perfect wives,     Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints!     We get no Christ from you, and verily     We shall not get a poet, in my mind."     "With which conclusion you conclude" . . .                      "But this,"     That you, Aurora, with the large live brow     And steady eyelids, cannot condescend     To play at art, as children play at swords,     To show a pretty spirit, chiefly admired     Because true action is impossible.     You never can be satisfied with praise     Which men give women when they judge a book     Not as mere work but as mere woman's work,     Expressing the comparative respect     Which means the absolute scorn. "Oh, excellent,     "What grace, what facile turns, what fluent sweeps,     "What delicate discernment . . . almost thought!     "The book does honour to the sex, we hold.     "Among our female authors we make room     "For this fair writer, and congratulate     "The country that produces in these times     "Such women, competent to . . . spell."                 "Stop there,"     I answered, burning through his thread of talk     With a quick flame of emotion, "You have read     My soul, if not my book, and argue well     I would not condescend . . . we will not say     To such a kind of praise (a worthless end     Is praise of all kinds), but to such a use     Of holy art and golden life. I am young,     And peradventure weak you tell me so     Through being a woman. And, for all the rest,     Take thanks for justice. I would rather dance     At fairs on tight-rope, till the babies dropped     Their gingerbread for joy, than shift the types     For tolerable verse, intolerable     To men who act and suffer. Better far     Pursue a frivolous trade by serious means,     Than a sublime art frivolously."     "You,     Choose nobler work than either, O moist eyes     And hurrying lips and heaving heart! We are young,     Aurora, you and I. The world, look round,     The world, we're come to late, is swollen hard     With perished generations and their sins:     The civiliser's spade grinds horribly     On dead men's bones, and cannot turn up soil     That's otherwise than fetid. All success     Proves partial failure; all advance implies     What's left behind; all triumph, something crushed     At the chariot-wheels; all government, some wrong:     And rich men make the poor, who curse the rich,     Who agonise together, rich and poor,     Under and over, in the social spasm     And crisis of the ages. Here's an age     That makes its own vocation! here we have stepped     Across the bounds of time! here's nought to see,     But just the rich man and just Lazarus,     And both in torments, with a mediate gulf,     Though not a hint of Abraham's bosom. Who     Being man, Aurora, can stand calmly by     And view these things, and never tease his soul     For some great cure? No physic for this grief,     In all the earth and heavens too?"     "You believe     In God, for your part? ay? that He who makes     Can make good things from ill things, best from worst,     As men plant tulips upon dunghills when     They wish them finest?"     "True. A death-heat is     The same as life-heat, to be accurate,     And in all nature is no death at all,     As men account of death, so long as God     Stands witnessing for life perpetually,     By being just God. That's abstract truth, I know,     Philosophy, or sympathy with God:     But I, I sympathise with man, not God     (I think I was a man for chiefly this),     And when I stand beside a dying bed,     'Tis death to me. Observe, it had not much     Consoled the race of mastodons to know,     Before they went to fossil, that anon     Their place would quicken with the elephant.     They were not elephants but mastodons;     And I, a man, as men are now and not     As men may be hereafter, feel with men     In the agonising present."     "Is it so,"     I said, "my cousin? is the world so bad,     While I hear nothing of it through the trees?     The world was always evil, but so bad?"     "So bad, Aurora. Dear, my soul is grey     With poring over the long sum of ill;     So much for vice, so much for discontent,     So much for the necessities of power,     So much for the connivances of fear,     Coherent in statistical despairs     With such a total of distracted life, . . .     To see it down in figures on a page,     Plain, silent, clear, as God sees through the earth     The sense of all the graves, that's terrible     For one who is not God, and cannot right     The wrong he looks on. May I choose indeed,     But vow away my years, my means, my aims,     Among the helpers, if there's any help     In such a social strait? The common blood     That swings along my veins is strong enough     To draw me to this duty."     Then I spoke.     "I have not stood long on the strand of life,     And these salt waters have had scarcely time     To creep so high up as to wet my feet:     I cannot judge these tides I shall, perhaps.     A woman's always younger than a man     At equal years, because she is disallowed     Maturing by the outdoor sun and air,     And kept in long-clothes past the age to walk.     Ah well, I know you men judge otherwise!     You think a woman ripens, as a peach,     In the cheeks chiefly. Pass it to me now;     I'm young in age, and younger still, I think,     As a woman. But a child may say amen     To a bishop's prayer and feel the way it goes,     And I, incapable to loose the knot     Of social questions, can approve, applaud     August compassion, Christian thoughts that shoot     Beyond the vulgar white of personal aims.     Accept my reverence."     There he glowed on me     With all his face and eyes. "No other help?"     Said he "no more than so?"     "What help?" I asked.     "You'd scorn my help, as Nature's self, you say,     Has scorned to put her music in my mouth     Because a woman's. Do you now turn round     And ask for what a woman cannot give?"     "For what she only can, I turn and ask,"     He answered, catching up my hands in his,     And dropping on me from his high-eaved brow     The full weight of his soul, "I ask for love,     And that, she can; for life in fellowship     Through bitter duties that, I know she can;     For wifehood will she?"     "Now," I said, "may God     Be witness 'twixt us two!" and with the word,     Meseemed I floated into a sudden light     Above his stature, "am I proved too weak     To stand alone, yet strong enough to bear     Such leaners on my shoulder? poor to think,     Yet rich enough to sympathise with thought?     Incompetent to sing, as blackbirds can,     Yet competent to love, like him?"     I paused;     Perhaps I darkened, as the lighthouse will     That turns upon the sea. "It's always so.     Anything does for a wife."     "Aurora, dear,     And dearly honoured," he pressed in at once     With eager utterance, "you translate me ill.     I do not contradict my thought of you     Which is most reverent, with another thought     Found less so. If your sex is weak for art     (And I, who said so, did but honour you     By using truth in courtship), it is strong     For life and duty. Place your fecund heart     In mine, and let us blossom for the world     That wants love's colour in the grey of time.     My talk, meanwhile, is arid to you, ay,     Since all my talk can only set you where     You look down coldly on the arena-heaps     Of headless bodies, shapeless, indistinct!     The Judgment-Angel scarce would find his way     Through such a heap of generalised distress     To the individual man with lips and eyes,     Much less Aurora. Ah, my sweet, come down,     And hand in hand we'll go where yours shall touch     These victims, one by one! till, one by one,     The formless, nameless trunk of every man     Shall seem to wear a head with hair you know,     And every woman catch your mother's face     To melt you into passion."     "I am a girl,"     I answered slowly; "you do well to name     My mother's face. Though far too early, alas,     God's hand did interpose 'twixt it and me,     I know so much of love as used to shine     In that face and another. Just so much;     No more indeed at all. I have not seen     So much love since, I pray you pardon me,     As answers even to make a marriage with     In this cold land of England. What you love     Is not a woman, Romney, but a cause:     You want a helpmate, not a mistress, sir,     A wife to help your ends, in her no end.     Your cause is noble, your ends excellent,     But I, being most unworthy of these and that,     Do otherwise conceive of love. Farewell."     "Farewell, Aurora? you reject me thus?"     He said.     "Sir, you were married long ago.     You have a wife already whom you love,     Your social theory. Bless you both, I say.     For my part, I am scarcely meek enough     To be the handmaid of a lawful spouse.     Do I look a Hagar, think you?"     "So you jest."     "Nay, so, I speak in earnest," I replied.     "You treat of marriage too much like, at least,     A chief apostle: you would bear with you     A wife . . . a sister . . . shall we speak it out?     A sister of charity."     "Then, must it be     Indeed farewell? And was I so far wrong     In hope and in illusion, when I took     The woman to be nobler than the man,     Yourself the noblest woman, in the use     And comprehension of what love is, love,     That generates the likeness of itself     Through all heroic duties? so far wrong,     In saying bluntly, venturing truth on love,     'Come, human creature, love and work with me,'     Instead of 'Lady, thou art wondrous fair,     'And, where the Graces walk before, the Muse     'Will follow at the lightning of their eyes,     'And where the Muse walks, lovers need to creep:     'Turn round and love me, or I die of love.'"     With quiet indignation I broke in.     "You misconceive the question like a man,     Who sees a woman as the complement     Of his sex merely. You forget too much     That every creature, female as the male,     Stands single in responsible act and thought     As also in birth and death. Whoever says     To a loyal woman, 'Love and work with me,'     Will get fair answers if the work and love,     Being good themselves, are good for her the best     She was born for. Women of a softer mood,     Surprised by men when scarcely awake to life,     Will sometimes only hear the first word, love,     And catch up with it any kind of work,     Indifferent, so that dear love go with it.     I do not blame such women, though, for love,     They pick much oakum; earth's fanatics make     Too frequently heaven's saints. But me your work     Is not the best for, nor your love the best,     Nor able to commend the kind of work     For love's sake merely. Ah, you force me, sir,     To be overbold in speaking of myself:     I too have my vocation, work to do,     The heavens and earth have set me since I changed     My father's face for theirs, and, though your world     Were twice as wretched as you represent,     Most serious work, most necessary work     As any of the economists'. Reform,     Make trade a Christian possibility,     And individual right no general wrong;     Wipe out earth's furrows of the Thine and Mine,     And leave one green for men to play at bowls,     With innings for them all! . . . What then, indeed,     If mortals are not greater by the head     Than any of their prosperities? what then,     Unless the artist keep up open roads     Betwixt the seen and unseen, bursting through     The best of your conventions with his best,     The speakable, imaginable best     God bids him speak, to prove what lies beyond     Both speech and imagination? A starved man     Exceeds a fat beast: we'll not barter, sir,     The beautiful for barley. And, even so,     I hold you will not compass your poor ends     Of barley-feeding and material ease,     Without a poet's individualism     To work your universal. It takes a soul,     To move a body: it takes a high-souled man,     To move the masses, even to a cleaner stye:     It takes the ideal, to blow a hair's-breadth off     The dust of the actual. Ah, your Fouriers failed,     Because not poets enough to understand     That life develops from within. For me,     Perhaps I am not worthy, as you say,     Of work like this: perhaps a woman's soul     Aspires, and not creates: yet we aspire,     And yet I'll try out your perhapses, sir,     And if I fail . . . why, burn me up my straw     Like other false works I'll not ask for grace;     Your scorn is better, cousin Romney. I     Who love my art, would never wish it lower     To suit my stature. I may love my art.     You'll grant that even a woman may love art,     Seeing that to waste true love on anything     Is womanly, past question."     I retain     The very last word which I said that day,     As you the creaking of the door, years past,     Which let upon you such disabling news     You ever after have been graver. He,     His eyes, the motions in his silent mouth,     Were fiery points on which my words were caught,     Transfixed for ever in my memory     For his sake, not their own. And yet I know     I did not love him . . . nor he me . . . that's sure . . .     And what I said is unrepented of,     As truth is always. Yet . . . a princely man!     If hard to me, heroic for himself!     He bears down on me through the slanting years,     The stronger for the distance. If he had loved,     Ay, loved me, with that retributive face, . . .     I might have been a common woman now     And happier, less known and less left alone,     Perhaps a better woman after all,     With chubby children hanging on my neck     To keep me low and wise. Ah me, the vines     That bear such fruit are proud to stoop with it.     The palm stands upright in a realm of sand.     And I, who spoke the truth then, stand upright,     Still worthy of having spoken out the truth,     By being content I spoke it though it set     Him there, me here. O woman's vile remorse,     To hanker after a mere name, a show,     A supposition, a potential love!     Does every man who names love in our lives     Become a power for that? is love's true thing     So much best to us, that what personates love     Is next best? A potential love, forsooth!     I'm not so vile. No, no he cleaves, I think,     This man, this image, chiefly for the wrong     And shock he gave my life, in finding me     Precisely where the devil of my youth     Had set me, on those mountain-peaks of hope     All glittering with the dawn-dew, all erect     And famished for the noon, exclaiming, while     I looked for empire and much tribute, "Come,     I have some worthy work for thee below.     Come, sweep my barns and keep my hospitals,     And I will pay thee with a current coin     Which men give women."     As we spoke, the grass     Was trod in haste beside us, and my aunt,     With smile distorted by the sun, face, voice     As much at issue with the summer-day     As if you brought a candle out of doors,     Broke in with "Romney, here! My child, entreat     Your cousin to the house, and have your talk,     If girls must talk upon their birthdays. Come."     He answered for me calmly, with pale lips     That seemed to motion for a smile in vain,     "The talk is ended, madam, where we stand.     Your brother's daughter has dismissed me here;     And all my answer can be better said     Beneath the trees, than wrong by such a word     Your house's hospitalities. Farewell."     With that he vanished. I could hear his heel     Ring bluntly in the lane, as down he leapt     The short way from us. Then a measured speech     Withdrew me. "What means this, Aurora Leigh?     My brother's daughter has dismissed my guests?"     The lion in me felt the keeper's voice     Through all its quivering dewlaps; I was quelled     Before her, meekened to the child she knew:     I prayed her pardon, said "I had little thought     To give dismissal to a guest of hers,     In letting go a friend of mine who came     To take me into service as a wife,     No more than that, indeed."     "No more, no more?     Pray Heaven," she answered, "that I was not mad.     I could not mean to tell her to her face     That Romney Leigh had asked me for a wife,     And I refused him?"     "Did he ask?" I said;     "I think he rather stooped to take me up     For certain uses which he found to do     For something called a wife. He never asked."     "What stuff!" she answered; "are they queens, these girls?     They must have mantles, stitched with twenty silks,     Spread out upon the ground, before they'll step     One footstep for the noblest lover born."     "But I am born," I said with firmness, "I,     To walk another way than his, dear aunt."     "You walk, you walk! A babe at thirteen months     Will walk as well as you," she cried in haste,     "Without a steadying finger. Why, you child,     God help you, you are groping in the dark,     For all this sunlight. You suppose, perhaps,     That you, sole offspring of an opulent man,     Are rich and free to choose a way to walk?     You think, and it's a reasonable thought,     That I, beside, being well to do in life,     Will leave my handful in my niece's hand     When death shall paralyse these fingers? Pray,     Pray, child, albeit I know you love me not,     As if you loved me, that I may not die!     For when I die and leave you, out you go     (Unless I make room for you in my grave),     Unhoused, unfed, my dear poor brother's lamb     (Ah heaven! that pains!) without a right to crop     A single blade of grass beneath these trees,     Or cast a lamb's small shadow on the lawn,     Unfed, unfolded! Ah, my brother, here's     The fruit you planted in your foreign loves!     Ay, there's the fruit he planted! never look     Astonished at me with your mother's eyes,     For it was they who set you where you are,     An undowered orphan. Child, your father's choice     Of that said mother disinherited     His daughter, his and hers. Men do not think     Of sons and daughters, when they fall in love,     So much more than of sisters; otherwise     He would have paused to ponder what he did,     And shrunk before that clause in the entail     Excluding offspring by a foreign wife     (The clause set up a hundred years ago     By a Leigh who wedded a French dancing-girl     And had his heart danced over in return);     But this man shrank at nothing, never thought     Of you, Aurora, any more than me     Your mother must have been a pretty thing,     For all the coarse Italian blacks and browns,     To make a good man, which my brother was,     Unchary of the duties to his house;     But so it fell indeed. Our cousin Vane,     Vane Leigh, the father of this Romney, wrote     Directly on your birth, to Italy,     'I ask your baby daughter for my son,     In whom the entail now merges by the law.     Betroth her to us out of love, instead     Of colder reasons, and she shall not lose     By love or law from henceforth' so he wrote;     A generous cousin was my cousin Vane.     Remember how he drew you to his knee     The year you came here, just before he died,     And hollowed out his hands to hold your cheeks,     And wished them redder, you remember Vane.     And now his son, who represents our house,     And holds the fiefs and manors in his place,     To whom reverts my pittance when I die     (Except a few books and a pair of shawls),     The boy is generous like him, and prepared     To carry out his kindest word and thought     To you, Aurora. Yes, a fine young man     Is Romney Leigh; although the sun of youth     Has shone too straight upon his brain, I know,     And fevered him with dreams of doing good     To good-for-nothing people. But a wife     Will put all right, and stroke his temples cool     With healthy touches." . . .     I broke in at that.     I could not lift my heavy heart to breathe     Till, then, but then I raised it, and it fell     In broken words like these "No need to wait:     The dream of doing good to . . . me, at least,     Is ended, without waiting for a wife     To cool the fever for him. We've escaped     That danger, thank Heaven for it."         "You," she cried,     "Have got a fever. What, I talk and talk     An hour long to you, I instruct you how     You cannot eat or drink or stand or sit     Or even die, like any decent wretch     In all this unroofed and unfurnished world,     Without your cousin, and you still maintain     There's room 'twixt him and you for flirting fans     And running knots in eyebrows? You must have     A pattern lover sighing on his knee?     You do not count enough, a noble heart     (Above book-patterns) which this very morn     Unclosed itself in two dear fathers' names     To embrace your orphaned life? Fie, fie! But stay,     I write a word, and counteract this sin."     She would have turned to leave me, but I clung.     "O sweet my father's sister, hear my word     Before you write yours. Cousin Vane did well,     And cousin Romney well, and I well too,     In casting back with all my strength and will     The good they meant me. O my God, my God!     God meant me good, too, when He hindered me     From saying 'yes' this morning. If you write     A word, it shall be 'no.' I say no, no!     I tie up 'no' upon His altar-horns,     Quite out of reach of perjury! At least     My soul is not a pauper; I can live     At least my soul's life, without alms from men;     And if it must be in heaven instead of earth,     Let heaven look to it, I am not afraid."     She seized my hands with both hers, strained them fast,     And drew her probing and unscrupulous eyes     Right through me, body and heart. "Yet, foolish Sweet,     You love this man. I've watched you when he came,     And when he went, and when we've talked of him:     I am not old for nothing; I can tell     The weather-signs of love: you love this man."     Girls blush sometimes because they are alive,     Half wishing they were dead to save the shame.     The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow;     They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats,     And flare up bodily, wings and all. What then?     Who's sorry for a gnat . . . or girl?             I blushed.     I feel the brand upon my forehead now     Strike hot, sear deep, as guiltless men may feel     The felon's iron, say, and scorn the mark     Of what they are not. Most illogical     Irrational nature of our womanhood,     That blushes one way, feels another way,     And prays, perhaps, another! After all,     We cannot be the equal of the male     Who rules his blood a little.     For although     I blushed indeed, as if I loved the man,     And her incisive smile, accrediting     That treason of false witness in my blush,     Did bow me downward like a swathe of grass     Below its level that struck me, I attest     The conscious skies and all their daily suns,     I think I loved him not, nor then, nor since,     Nor ever. Do we love the schoolmaster,     Being busy in the woods? much less, being poor,     The overseer of the parish? Do we keep     Our love to pay our debts with?     White and cold     I grew next moment. As my blood recoiled     From that imputed ignominy, I made     My heart great with it. Then, at last, I spoke,     Spoke veritable words but passionate,     Too passionate perhaps . . . ground up with sobs     To shapeless endings. She let fall my hands     And took her smile off, in sedate disgust,     As peradventure she had touched a snake,     A dead snake, mind! and, turning round, replied,     "We'll leave Italian manners, if you please.     I think you had an English father, child,     And ought to find it possible to speak     A quiet 'yes' or 'no,' like English girls,     Without convulsions. In another month     We'll take another answer no, or yes."     With that, she left me in the garden-walk.     I had a father! yes, but long ago     How long it seemed that moment. Oh, how far,     How far and safe, God, dost thou keep thy saints     When once gone from us! We may call against     The lighted windows of thy fair June-heaven     Where all the souls are happy, and not one,     Not even my father, look from work or play     To ask, "Who is it that cries after us,     Below there, in the dusk?" Yet formerly     He turned his face upon me quick enough,     If I said "father." Now I might cry loud;     The little lark reached higher with his song     Than I with crying. Oh, alone, alone,     Not troubling any in heaven, nor any on earth,     I stood there in the garden, and looked up     The deaf blue sky that brings the roses out     On such June mornings.     You who keep account     Of crisis and transition in this life,     Set down the first time Nature says plain "no"     To some "yes" in you, and walks over you     In gorgeous sweeps of scorn. We all begin     By singing with the birds, and running fast     With June-days, hand in hand: but once, for all,     The birds must sing against us, and the sun     Strike down upon us like a friend's sword caught     By an enemy to slay us, while we read     The dear name on the blade which bites at us!     That's bitter and convincing: after that,     We seldom doubt that something in the large     Smooth order of creation, though no more     Than haply a man's footstep, has gone wrong.     Some tears fell down my cheeks, and then I smiled,     As those smile who have no face in the world     To smile back to them. I had lost a friend     In Romney Leigh; the thing was sure a friend,     Who had looked at me most gently now and then,     And spoken of my favourite books, "our books,"     With such a voice! Well, voice and look were now     More utterly shut out from me I felt,     Than even my father's. Romney now was turned     To a benefactor, to a generous man,     Who had tied himself to marry . . . me, instead     Of such a woman, with low timorous lids     He lifted with a sudden word one day,     And left, perhaps, for my sake. Ah, self-tied     By a contract, male Iphigenia bound     At a fatal Aulis for the winds to change     (But loose him, they'll not change), he well might seem     A little cold and dominant in love!     He had a right to be dogmatical,     This poor, good Romney. Love, to him, was made     A simple law-clause. If I married him,     I should not dare to call my soul my own     Which so he had bought and paid for: every thought     And every heart-beat down there in the bill;     Not one found honestly deductible     From any use that pleased him! He might cut     My body into coins to give away     Among his other paupers; change my sons,     While I stood dumb as Griseld, for black babes     Or piteous foundlings; might unquestioned set     My right hand teaching in the Ragged Schools,     My left hand washing in the Public Baths,     What time my angel of the Ideal stretched     Both his to me in vain. I could not claim     The poor right of a mouse in a trap, to squeal,     And take so much as pity from myself.     Farewell, good Romney! if I loved you even,     I could but ill afford to let you be     So generous to me. Farewell, friend, since friend     Betwixt us two, forsooth, must be a word     So heavily overladen. And, since help     Must come to me from those who love me not,     Farewell, all helpers I must help myself,     And am alone from henceforth. Then I stooped     And lifted the soiled garland from the earth,     And set it on my head as bitterly     As when the Spanish monarch crowned the bones     Of his dead love. So be it. I preserve     That crown still, in the drawer there! 'twas the first.     The rest are like it; those Olympian crowns,     We run for, till we lose sight of the sun     In the dust of the racing chariots!         After that,     Before the evening fell, I had a note,     Which ran, "Aurora, sweet Chaldean, you read     My meaning backward like your eastern books,     While I am from the west, dear. Read me now     A little plainer. Did you hate me quite     But yesterday? I loved you for my part;     I love you. If I spoke untenderly     This morning, my beloved, pardon it;     And comprehend me that I loved you so     I set you on the level of my soul,     And overwashed you with the bitter brine     Of some habitual thoughts. Henceforth, my flower,     Be planted out of reach of any such,     And lean the side you please, with all your leaves!     Write woman's verses and dream woman's dreams;     But let me feel your perfume in my home     To make my sabbath after working-days.     Bloom out your youth beside me, be my wife."     I wrote in answer "We Chaldeans discern     Still farther than we read. I know your heart,     And shut it like the holy book it is,     Reserved for mild-eyed saints to pore upon     Betwixt their prayers at vespers. Well, you're right,     I did not surely hate you yesterday;     And yet I do not love you enough to-day     To wed you, cousin Romney. Take this word,     And let it stop you as a generous man     From speaking farther. You may tease, indeed,     And blow about my feelings, or my leaves,     And here's my aunt will help you with east winds     And break a stalk, perhaps, tormenting me;     But certain flowers grow near as deep as trees,     And, cousin, you'll not move my root, not you,     With all your confluent storms. Then let me grow     Within my wayside hedge, and pass your way!     This flower has never as much to say to you     As the antique tomb which said to travellers, 'Pause,     'Siste, viator.'" Ending thus, I sighed.     The next week passed in silence, so the next,     And several after: Romney did not come     Nor my aunt chide me. I lived on and on,     As if my heart were kept beneath a glass,     And everybody stood, all eyes and ears,     To see and hear it tick. I could not sit,     Nor walk, nor take a book, nor lay it down,     Nor sew on steadily, nor drop a stitch,     And a sigh with it, but I felt her looks     Still cleaving to me, like the sucking asp     To Cleopatra's breast, persistently     Through the intermittent pantings. Being observed,     When observation is not sympathy,     Is just being tortured. If she said a word,     A "thank you," or an "if it please you, dear,"     She meant a commination, or, at best,     An exorcism against the devildom     Which plainly held me. So with all the house.     Susannah could not stand and twist my hair     Without such glancing at the looking-glass     To see my face there, that she missed the plait.     And John, I never sent my plate for soup,     Or did not send it, but the foolish John     Resolved the problem, 'twixt his napkined thumbs,     Of what was signified by taking soup     Or choosing mackerel. Neighbours who drooped in     On morning visits, feeling a joint wrong,     Smiled admonition, sat uneasily,     And talked, with measured, emphasised reserve,     Of parish news, like doctors to the sick,     When not called in, as if, with leave to speak,     They might say something. Nay, the very dog     Would watch me from his sun-patch on the floor,     In alternation with the large black fly     Not yet in reach of snapping. So I lived.     A Roman died so; smeared with honey, teased     By insects, stared to torture by the noon:     And many patient souls 'neath English roofs     Have died like Romans. I, in looking back,     Wish only, now, I had borne the plague of all     With meeker spirits than were rife at Rome.     For, on the sixth week, the dead sea broke up,     Dashed suddenly through beneath the heel of Him     Who stands upon the sea and earth and swears     Time shall be nevermore. The clock struck nine     That morning too, no lark was out of tune,     The hidden farms among the hills breathed straight     Their smoke toward heaven, the lime-tree scarcely stirred     Beneath the blue weight of the cloudless sky,     Though still the July air came floating through     The woodbine at my window, in and out,     With touches of the out-door country news     For a bending forehead. There I sat, and wished     That morning-truce of God would last till eve,     Or longer. "Sleep," I thought, "late sleepers, sleep,     And spare me yet the burden of your eyes."     Then, suddenly, a single ghastly shriek     Tore upward from the bottom of the house.     Like one who wakens in a grave and shrieks,     The still house seemed to shriek itself alive,     And shudder through its passages and stairs     With slam of doors and clash of bells. I sprang,     I stood up in the middle of the room,     And there confronted at my chamber-door     A white face, shivering, ineffectual lips.     "Come, come," they tried to utter, and I went:     As if a ghost had drawn me at the point     Of a fiery finger through the uneven dark,     I went with reeling footsteps down the stair,     Nor asked a question.     There she sat, my aunt,     Bolt upright in the chair beside her bed,     Whose pillow had no dint! she had used no bed     For that night's sleeping, yet slept well. My God,     The dumb derision of that grey, peaked face     Concluded something grave against the sun,     Which filled the chamber with its July burst     When Susan drew the curtains ignorant     Of who sat open-eyed behind her. There     She sat . . . it sat . . . we said "she" yesterday . . .     And held a letter with unbroken seal     As Susan gave it to her hand last night:     All night she had held it. If its news referred     To duchies or to dunghills, not an inch     She'd budge, 'twas obvious, for such worthless odds:     Nor, though the stars were suns and overburned     Their spheric limitations, swallowing up     Like wax the azure spaces, could they force     Those open eyes to wink once. What last sight     Had left them blank and flat so, drawing out     The faculty of vision from the roots,     As nothing more, worth seeing, remained behind?     Were those the eyes that watched me, worried me?     That dogged me up and down the hours and days,     A beaten, breathless, miserable soul?     And did I pray, a half-hour back, but so,     To escape the burden of those eyes . . . those eyes?     "Sleep late" I said?     Why, now, indeed, they sleep.     God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers,     And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our face,     A gauntlet with a gift in't. Every wish     Is like a prayer, with God.     I had my wish,     To read and meditate the thing I would,     To fashion all my life upon my thought,     And marry or not marry. Henceforth none     Could disapprove me, vex me, hamper me.     Full ground-room, in this desert newly made,     For Babylon or Baalbec, when the breath,     Now choked with sand, returns for building towns.     The heir came over on the funeral day,     And we two cousins met before the dead,     With two pale faces. Was it death or life     That moved us? When the will was read and done,     The official guests and witnesses withdrawn,     We rose up in a silence almost hard,     And looked at one another. Then I said,     "Farewell, my cousin."     But he touched, just touched     My hatstrings, tied for going (at the door     The carriage stood to take me), and said low,     His voice a little unsteady through his smile,     "Siste, viator."     "Is there time," I asked,     "In these last days of railroads, to stop short     Like Csar's chariot (weighing half a ton)     On the Appian road, for morals?"     "There is time,"     He answered grave, "for necessary words,     Inclusive, trust me, of no epitaph     On man or act, my cousin. We have read     A will, which gives you all the personal goods     And funded moneys of your aunt."     "I thank     Her memory for it. With three hundred pounds     We buy, in England even, clear standing-room     To stand and work in. Only two hours since,     I fancied I was poor."     "And, cousin, still     You're richer than you fancy. The will says,     Three hundred pounds, and any other sum     Of which the said testatrix dies possessed.     I say she died possessed of other sums."     "Dear Romney, need we chronicle the pence?     I'm richer than I thought that's evident.     Enough so."     "Listen rather. You've to do     With business and a cousin," he resumed,     "And both, I fear, need patience. Here's the fact.     The other sum (there is another sum,     Unspecified in any will which dates     After possession, yet bequeathed as much     And clearly as those said three hundred pounds)     Is thirty thousand. You will have it paid     When? . . . where? My duty troubles you with words."     He struck the iron when the bar was hot;     No wonder if my eyes sent out some sparks.     "Pause there! I thank you. You are delicate     In glosing gifts; but I, who share your blood,     Am rather made for giving, like yourself,     Than taking, like your pensioners. Farewell."     He stopped me with a gesture of calm pride.     "A Leigh," he said, "gives largesse and gives love,     But gloses never: if a Leigh could glose,     He would not do it, moreover, to a Leigh,     With blood trained up along nine centuries     To hound and hate a lie from eyes like yours.     And now we'll make the rest as clear: your aunt     Possessed these moneys."     "You will make it clear,     My cousin, as the honour of us both,     Or one of us speaks vainly! that's not I.     My aunt possessed this sum, inherited     From whom, and when? bring documents, prove dates."     "Why now indeed you throw your bonnet off     As if you had time left for a logarithm!     The faith's the want. Dear cousin, give me faith,     And you shall walk this road with silken shoes,     As clean as any lady of our house     Supposed the proudest. Oh, I comprehend     The whole position from your point of sight.     I oust you from your father's halls and lands     And make you poor by getting rich that's law;     Considering which, in common circumstance,     You would not scruple to accept from me     Some compensation, some sufficiency     Of income that were justice; but, alas,     I love you, that's mere nature; you reject     My love, that's nature also; and at once,     You cannot, from a suitor disallowed,     A hand thrown back as mine is, into yours     Receive a doit, a farthing, not for the world!     That's woman's etiquette, and obviously     Exceeds the claim of nature, law, and right,     Unanswerable to all. I grant, you see,     The case as you conceive it, leave you room     To sweep your ample skirts of womanhood,     While, standing humbly squeezed against the wall,     I own myself excluded from being just,     Restrained from paying indubitable debts,     Because denied from giving you my soul.     That's my misfortune! I submit to it     As if, in some more reasonable age,     'Twould not be less inevitable. Enough.     You'll trust me, cousin, as a gentleman,     To keep your honour, as you count it, pure,     Your scruples (just as if I thought them wise)     Safe and inviolate from gifts of mine."     I answered mild but earnest. "I believe     In no one's honour which another keeps,     Nor man's nor woman's. As I keep, myself,     My truth and my religion, I depute     No father, though I had one this side death,     Nor brother, though I had twenty, much less you,     Though twice my cousin, and once Romney Leigh,     To keep my honour pure. You face, to-day,     A man who wants instruction, mark me, not     A woman who wants protection. As to a man,     Show manhood, speak out plainly, be precise     With facts and dates. My aunt inherited     This sum, you say "     "I said she died possessed     Of this, dear cousin."     "Not by heritage.     Thank you: we're getting to the facts at last.     Perhaps she played at commerce with a ship     Which came in heavy with Australian gold?     Or touched a lottery with her finger-end,     Which tumbled on a sudden into her lap     Some old Rhine tower or principality?     Perhaps she had to do with a marine     Sub-transatlantic railroad, which pre-pays     As well as pre-supposes? or perhaps     Some stale ancestral debt was after-paid     By a hundred years, and took her by surprise?     You shake your head, my cousin; I guess ill."     "You need not guess, Aurora, nor deride;     The truth is not afraid of hurting you.     You'll find no cause, in all your scruples, why     Your aunt should cavil at a deed of gift     'Twixt her and me."     "I thought so ah! a gift."     "You naturally thought so," he resumed.     "A very natural gift."     "A gift, a gift!     Her individual life being stranded high     Above all want, approaching opulence,     Too haughty was she to accept a gift     Without some ultimate aim: ah, ah, I see,     A gift intended plainly for her heirs,     And so accepted . . . if accepted . . . ah,     Indeed that might be; I am snared perhaps     Just so. But, cousin, shall I pardon you,     If thus you have caught me with a cruel springe?"     He answered gently, "Need you tremble and pant     Like a netted lioness? is't my fault, mine,     That you're a grand wild creature of the woods     And hate the stall built for you? Any way,     Though triply netted, need you glare at me?     I do not hold the cords of such a net;     You're free from me, Aurora!"     "Now may God     Deliver me from this strait! This gift of yours     Was tendered . . . when? accepted . . . when?" I asked.     "A month . . . a fortnight since? Six weeks ago     It was not tendered; by a word she dropped     I know it was not tendered nor received.     When was it? bring your dates."     "What matters when?     A half-hour ere she died, or a half-year,     Secured the gift, maintains the heritage     Inviolable with law. As easy pluck     The golden stars from heaven's embroidered stole     To pin them on the grey side of this earth,     As make you poor again, thank God."         "Net poor     Nor clean again from henceforth, you thank God?     Well, sir I ask you I insist at need,     Vouchsafe the special date, the special date."     "The day before her death-day," he replied,     "The gift was in her hands. We'll find that deed,     And certify that date to you."     As one     Who has climbed a mountain-height and carried up     His own heart climbing, panting in his throat     With the toil of the ascent, takes breath at last,     Looks back in triumph so I stood and looked.     "Dear cousin Romney, we have reached the top     Of this steep question, and may rest, I think.     But first, I pray you pardon, that the shock     And surge of natural feeling and event     Has made me oblivious of acquainting you     That this, this letter (unread, mark, still sealed),     Was found enfolded in the poor dead hand:     That spirit of hers had gone beyond the address,     Which could not find her though you wrote it clear,     I know your writing, Romney, recognise     The open-hearted A, the liberal sweep     Of the G. Now listen, let us understand:     You will not find that famous deed of gift,     Unless you find it in the letter here,     Which, not being mine, I give you back. Refuse     To take the letter? well then you and I,     As writer and as heiress, open it     Together, by your leave. Exactly so:     The words in which the noble offering's made     Are nobler still, my cousin; and, I own,     The proudest and most delicate heart alive,     Distracted from the measure of the gift     By such a grace in giving, might accept     Your largesse without thinking any more     Of the burthen of it, than King Solomon     Considered, when he wore his holy ring     Charactered over with the ineffable spell,     How many carats of fine gold made up     Its money-value: so, Leigh gives to Leigh!     Or rather, might have given, observe, for that's     The point we come to. Here's a proof of gift,     But here's no proof, sir, of acceptancy,     But, rather, disproof. Death's black dust, being blown,     Infiltrated through every secret fold     Of this sealed letter by a puff of fate,     Dried up for ever the fresh-written ink,     Annulled the gift, disutilised the grace,     And left these fragments."     As I spoke, I tore     The paper up and down, and down and up     And crosswise, till it fluttered from my hands,     As forest-leaves, stripped suddenly and rapt     By a whirlwind on Valdarno, drop again,     Drop slow, and strew the melancholy ground     Before the amazd hills . . . why, so, indeed,     I'm writing like a poet, somewhat large     In the type of the image, and exaggerate     A small thing with a great thing, topping it:     But then I'm thinking how his eyes looked, his,     With what despondent and surprised reproach!     I think the tears were in them as he looked;     I think the manly mouth just trembled. Then     He broke the silence.     "I may ask, perhaps,     Although no stranger . . . only Romney Leigh,     Which means still less . . . than Vincent Carrington,     Your plans in going hence, and where you go.     This cannot be a secret."     "All my life     Is open to you, cousin. I go hence     To London, to the gathering-place of souls,     To live mine straight out, vocally, in books;     Harmoniously for others, if indeed     A woman's soul, like man's, be wide enough     To carry the whole octave (that's to prove),     Or, if I fail, still purely for myself.     Pray God be with me, Romney."     "Ah, poor child,     Who fight against the mother's 'tiring hand,     And choose the headsman's! May God change His world     For your sake, sweet, and make it mild as heaven,     And juster than I have found you."     But I paused.     "And you, my cousin?"     "I," he said, "you ask?     You care to ask? Well, girls have curious minds     And fain would know the end of everything,     Of cousins therefore with the rest. For me,     Aurora, I've my work; you know my work;     And, having missed this year some personal hope,     I must beware the rather that I miss     No reasonable duty. While you sing     Your happy pastorals of the meads and trees,     Bethink you that I go to impress and prove     On stifled brains and deafened ears, stunned deaf,     Crushed dull with grief, that nature sings itself,     And needs no mediate poet, lute or voice,     To make it vocal. While you ask of men     Your audience, I may get their leave perhaps     For hungry orphans to say audibly     'We're hungry, see,' for beaten and bullied wives     To hold their unweaned babies up in sight,     Whom orphanage would better, and for all     To speak and claim their portion . . . by no means     Of the soil, . . . but of the sweat in tilling it;     Since this is nowadays turned privilege,     To have only God's curse on us, and not man's.     Such work I have for doing, elbow-deep     In social problems, as you tie your rhymes,     To draw my uses to cohere with needs     And bring the uneven world back to its round,     Or, failing so much, fill up, bridge at least     To smoother issues some abysmal cracks     And feuds of earth, intestine heats have made     To keep men separate, using sorry shifts     Of hospitals, almshouses, infant schools,     And other practical stuff of partial good     You lovers of the beautiful and whole     Despise by system."     "I despise? The scorn     Is yours, my cousin. Poets become such     Through scorning nothing. You decry them for     The good of beauty sung and taught by them,     While they respect your practical partial good     As being a part of beauty's self. Adieu!     When God helps all the workers for His world,     The singers shall have help of Him, not last."     He smiled as men smile when they will not speak     Because of something bitter in the thought;     And still I feel his melancholy eyes     Look judgment on me. It is seven years since:     I know not if 'twas pity or 'twas scorn     Has made them so far-reaching: judge it ye     Who have had to do with pity more than love     And scorn than hatred. I am used, since then,     To other ways, from equal men. But so,     Even so, we let go hands, my cousin and I,     And in between us rushed the torrent-world     To blanch our faces like divided rocks,     And bar for ever mutual sight and touch     Except through swirl of spray and all that roar.