Part 6

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 Shakspeare and the gods. That’s very hard. The gods may laugh, and Shakspeare; 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 probable 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 sea-weed. 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 unawares 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, 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.

So, happy 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, In which the blood of wretches pent inside Seemed 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 spunge 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 goosequill, 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, though every muse should help The daylight, 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 burns, it burnt—my whole life burnt with it, And light, not sunlight and not torchlight, flashed My steps out through the slow and difficult road. I had grown distrustful of too forward Springs, The season’s books in drear significance Of morals, dropping round me. Lively books? The ash has livelier verdure than the yew; And yet the yew’s green longer, and alone Found worthy of the holy Christmas time. We’ll plant more yews if possible, albeit We plant the graveyards with them. Day and night I worked my rhythmic thought, and furrowed up Both watch and slumber with long lines of life Which did not suit their season. The rose fell From either cheek, my eyes globed luminous Through orbits of blue shadow, and my pulse Would shudder along the purple-veined wrist Like a shot bird. Youth’s stern, set face to face With youth’s ideal: and when people came And said, ‘You work too much, you are looking ill,’ I smiled for pity of them who pitied me, And thought I should be better soon perhaps For those ill looks. Observe—‘I,’ means in youth Just _I_ ... the conscious and eternal soul With all its ends,—and not the outside life, The parcel-man, the doublet of the flesh, The so much liver, lung, integument, Which make the sum of ‘I’ hereafter, when World-talkers talk of doing well or ill. _I_ prosper, if I gain a step, although A nail then pierced my foot: although my brain Embracing any truth, froze paralysed, _I_ prosper. I but change my instrument; I break the spade off, digging deep for gold, And catch the mattock up. I worked on, on. Through all the bristling fence of nights and days Which hedges time in from the eternities, I struggled, ... never stopped to note the stakes Which hurt me in my course. The midnight oil Would stink sometimes; there came some vulgar needs: I had to live, that therefore I might work, And, being but poor, I was constrained, for life, To work with one hand for the booksellers, While working with the other for myself And art. You swim with feet as well as hands, Or make small way. I apprehended this,— In England, no one lives by verse that lives; And, apprehending, I resolved by prose To make a space to sphere my living verse. I wrote for cyclopædias, magazines, And weekly papers, holding up my name To keep it from the mud. I learnt the use Of the editorial ‘we’ in a review, As courtly ladies the fine trick of trains, And swept it grandly through the open doors As if one could not pass through doors at all Save so encumbered. I wrote tales beside, Carved many an article on cherry-stones To suit light readers,—something in the lines Revealing, it was said, the mallet-hand, But that, I’ll never vouch for. What you do For bread, will taste of common grain, not grapes, Although you have a vineyard in Champagne,— Much less in Nephelococcygia, As mine was, peradventure. Having bread For just so many days, just breathing room For body and verse, I stood up straight and worked My veritable work. And as the soul Which grows within a child, makes the child grow,— Or as the fiery sap, the touch from God, Careering through a tree, dilates the bark, And roughs with scale and knob, before it strikes The summer foliage out in a green flame— So life, in deepening with me, deepened all The course I took, the work I did. Indeed, The academic law convinced of sin; The critics cried out on the falling off, Regretting the first manner. But I felt My heart’s life throbbing in my verse to show It lived, it also—certes incomplete, Disordered with all Adam in the blood, But even its very tumours, warts, and wens, Still organised by, and implying life.

A lady called upon me on such a day. She had the low voice of your English dames, Unused, it seems, to need rise half a note To catch attention,—and their quiet mood, As if they lived too high above the earth For that to put them out in anything: So gentle, because verily so proud; So wary and afeared of hurting you, By no means that you are not really vile, But that they would not touch you with their foot To push you to your place; so self-possessed Yet gracious and conciliating, it takes An effort in their presence to speak truth: You know the sort of woman,—brilliant stuff, And out of nature. ‘Lady Waldemar,’ She said her name quite simply, as if it meant Not much indeed, but something,—took my hands, And smiled, as if her smile could help my case, And dropped her eyes on me, and let them melt. ‘Is this,’ she said, ‘the Muse?’ ‘No sybil even,’ I answered, ‘since she fails to guess the cause Which taxed you with this visit, madam.’ ‘Good,’ She said, ‘I like to be sincere at once; Perhaps, if I had found a literal Muse, The visit might have taxed me. As it is, You wear your blue so chiefly in your eyes, My fair Aurora, in a frank good way, It comforts me entirely for your fame, As well as for the trouble of my ascent To this Olympus.’ There, a silver laugh Ran rippling through her quickened little breaths The steep stair somewhat justified. ‘But still Your ladyship has left me curious why You dared the risk of finding the said Muse?’

‘Ah,—keep me, notwithstanding, to the point, Like any pedant. Is the blue in eyes As awful as in stockings, after all, I wonder, that you’d have my business out Before I breathe—exact the epic plunge In spite of gasps? Well, naturally you think I’ve come here, as the lion-hunters go To deserts, to secure you, with a trap, For exhibition in my drawing-rooms On zoologic soirées? Not in the least. Roar softly at me; I am frivolous, I dare say; I have played at lions, too, Like other women of my class,—but now I meet my lion simply as Androcles Met his ... when at his mercy.’ So, she bent Her head, as queens may mock,—then lifting up Her eyelids with a real grave queenly look, Which ruled, and would not spare, not even herself,— ‘I think you have a cousin:—Romney Leigh.’

‘You bring a word from _him_?’—my eyes leapt up To the very height of hers,—‘a word from _him_?’

‘I bring a word about him, actually. But first,’—she pressed me with her urgent eyes— ‘You do not love him,—you?’ ‘You’re frank at least In putting questions, madam,’ I replied. ‘I love my cousin cousinly—no more.’

‘I guessed as much. I’m ready to be frank In answering also, if you’ll question me, Or even with something less. You stand outside, You artist women, of the common sex; You share not with us, and exceed us so Perhaps by what you’re mulcted in, your hearts Being starved to make your heads: so run the old Traditions of you. I can therefore speak, Without the natural shame which creatures feel When speaking on their level, to their like. There’s many a papist she, would rather die Than own to her maid she put a ribbon on To catch the indifferent eye of such a man,— Who yet would count adulteries on her beads At holy Mary’s shrine, and never blush; Because the saints are so far off, we lose All modesty before them. Thus, today. ’Tis _I_, love Romney Leigh.’ ‘Forbear,’ I cried. ‘If here’s no Muse, still less is any saint; Nor even a friend, that Lady Waldemar Should make confessions’.... ‘That’s unkindly said. If no friend, what forbids to make a friend To join to our confession ere we have done? I love your cousin. If it seems unwise To say so, it’s still foolisher (we’re frank) To feel so. My first husband left me young, And pretty enough, so please you, and rich enough, To keep my booth in May-fair with the rest To happy issues. There are marquises Would serve seven years to call me wife, I know: And, after seven, I might consider it, For there’s some comfort in a marquisate When all’s said,—yes, but after the seven years; I, now, love Romney. You put up your lip, So like a Leigh! so like him!—Pardon me, I am well aware I do not derogate In loving Romney Leigh. The name is good, The means are excellent; but the man, the man— Heaven help us both,—I am near as mad as he, In loving such an one.’ She slowly swung Her heavy ringlets till they touched her smile, As reasonably sorry for herself; And thus continued,— ‘Of a truth, Miss Leigh, I have not, without struggle, come to this. I took a master in the German tongue, I gamed a little, went to Paris twice; But, after all, this love!... you eat of love, And do as vile a thing as if you ate Of garlic—which, whatever else you eat, Tastes uniformly acrid, till your peach Reminds you of your onion. Am I coarse? Well, love’s coarse, nature’s coarse—ah, there’s the rub! We fair fine ladies, who park out our lives From common sheep-paths, cannot help the crows From flying over,—we’re as natural still As Blowsalinda. Drape us perfectly In Lyons’ velvet,—we are not, for that, Lay-figures, look you! we have hearts within, Warm, live, improvident, indecent hearts, As ready for distracted ends and acts As any distressed sempstress of them all That Romney groans and toils for. We catch love And other fevers, in the vulgar way. Love will not be outwitted by our wit, Nor outrun by our equipages:—mine Persisted, spite of efforts. All my cards Turned up but Romney Leigh; my German stopped At germane Wertherism; my Paris rounds Returned me from the Champs Elysées just A ghost, and sighing like Dido’s. I came home Uncured,—convicted rather to myself Of being in love ... in love! That’s coarse you’ll say. I’m talking garlic.’ Coldly I replied. ‘Apologise for atheism, not love! For me, I do believe in love, and God. I know my cousin: Lady Waldemar I know not: yet I say as much as this— Whoever loves him, let her not excuse But cleanse herself, that, loving such a man, She may not do it with such unworthy love He cannot stoop and take it.’ ‘That is said Austerely, like a youthful prophetess, Who knits her brows across her pretty eyes To keep them back from following the grey flight Of doves between the temple-columns. Dear, Be kinder with me. Let us two be friends. I’m a mere woman,—the more weak perhaps Through being so proud; you’re better; as for him, He’s best. Indeed he builds his goodness up So high, it topples down to the other side, And makes a sort of badness; there’s the worst I have to say against your cousin’s best! And so be mild, Aurora, with my worst, For his sake, if not mine.’ ‘I own myself Incredulous of confidence like this Availing him or you.’ ‘I, worthy of him? In your sense I am not so—let it pass. And yet I save him if I marry him; Let that pass too.’ ‘Pass, pass! we play police Upon my cousin’s life, to indicate What may or may not pass?’ I cried. ‘He knows What’s worthy of him; the choice remains with _him_; And what he chooses, act or wife, I think I shall not call unworthy, I, for one.’