# Aurora Leigh/Ninth Book

NINTH BOOK
By life and love, that, if I lived like some, And loved like . . some . . ay, loved you, Romney Leigh, As some love (eyes that have wept so much, see clear), I’ve room for no more children in my arms; My kisses are all melted on one mouth; I would not push my darling to a stool To dandle babies. Here’s a hand, shall keep For ever clean without a marriage-ring, To tend my boy, until he cease to need One steadying finger of it, and desert (Not miss) his mother’s lap, to sit with men. And when I miss him (not he me) I’ll come And say, ‘Now give me some of Romney’s work, To help your outcast orphans of the world, And comfort grief with grief.’ For you, meantime, Most noble Romney, wed a noble wife, And open on each other your great souls,— I need not farther bless you. If I dared But strain and touch her in her upper sphere, And say, ‘Come down to Romney—pay my debt! I should be joyful with the stream of joy Sent through me. But the moon is in my face . . I dare not,—though I guess the name he loves; I’m learned with my studies of old days, Remembering how he crushed his under-lip When some one came and spoke, or did not come. Aurora, I could touch her with my hand, And fly, because I dare not.’ She was gone. ​He smiled so sternly that I spoke in haste. ‘Forgive her—she sees clearly for herself: Her instinct’s holy.’ ‘I forgive?’ he said, ‘I only marvel how she sees so sure, While others’ . . there he paused,—then hoarse, abrupt,— ‘Aurora, you forgive us, her and me? For her, the thing she sees, poor loyal child, If once corrected by the thing I know, Had been unspoken; since she loves you well, Has leave to love you:—while for me, alas, If once or twice I let my heart escape This night, . . remember, where hearts slip and fall They break beside: we’re parting,—parting,—ah, You do not love, that you should surely know What that word means. Forgive, be tolerant; It had not been, but that I felt myself So safe in impuissance and despair, I could not hurt you though I tossed my arms And sighed my soul out. The most utter wretch Will choose his postures when he comes to die, However in the presence of a queen: And you’ll forgive me some unseemly spasms Which meant no more than dying. Do you think I had ever come here in my perfect mind, Unless I had come here, in my settled mind, Bound Marian’s, bound to keep the bond, and give My name, my house, my hand, the things I could, To Marian! For even I could give as much; Even I, affronting her exalted soul ​By a supposition that she wanted these, Could act the husband’s coat and hat set up To creak i’ the wind and drive the world-crows off From pecking in her garden. Straw can fill A hole to keep out vermin. Now, at last, I own heaven’s angels round her life suffice To fight the rats of our society, Without this Romney: I can see it at last; And here is ended my pretension which The most pretended. Over-proud of course, Even so!—but not so stupid . . blind . . that I, Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world Has set to meditate mistaken work, My dreary face against a dim blank wall Throughout man’s natural lifetime,—could pretend Or wish . . O love, I have loved you! O my soul, I have lost you!—but I swear by all yourself, And all you might have been to me these years, If that June-morning had not failed my hope,— I’m not so bestial, to regret that day This night,—this night, which still to you is fair; Nay, not so blind, Aurora. I attest Those stars above us, which I cannot see . . . ’
‘You cannot.’ . . ‘That if Heaven itself should stoop, Remit the lots, and give me another chance, I’d say, ‘No other!’—I’d record my blank. Aurora never should be wife of mine.’
​‘Not see the stars?’ ‘’Tis worse still, not to see To find your hand, although we’re parting, dear. A moment let me hold it, ere we part: And understand my last words—these at last! I would not have you thinking, when I’m gone, That Romney dared to hanker for your love, In thought or vision, if attainable, (Which certainly for me it never was) And wish to use it for a dog to-day, To help the blind man stumbling. God forbid! And now I know he held you in his palm, And kept you open-eyed to all my faults, To save you at last from such a dreary end. Believe me, dear, that if I had known, like Him, What loss was coming on me, I had done As well in this as He has.—Farewell, you, Who are still my light,—farewell! How late it is: I know that, now: you’ve been too patient, sweet. I will but blow my whistle toward the lane, And some one comes . . the same who brought me here. Get in—Good night.’ ‘A moment. Heavenly Christ! A moment. Speak once, Romney. ’Tis not true. I hold your hands, I look into your face— You see me?’ ‘No more than the blessed stars. Be blessed too, Aurora. Ah, my sweet, You tremble. Tender-hearted! Do you mind Of yore, dear, how you used to cheat old John, ​And let the mice out slyly from his traps, Until he marvelled at the soul in mice Which took the cheese and left the snare? The same Dear soft heart always! ’twas for this I grieved Howe’s letter never reached you. Ah, you had heard Of illness,—not the issue . . not the extent: My life long sick with tossings up and down; The sudden revulsion in the blazing house,— The strain and struggle both of body and soul, Which left fire running in my veins, for blood: Scarce lacked that thunderbolt of the falling beam, Which nicked me on the forehead as I passed The gallery door with a burden. Say heaven’s bolt, Not William Erle’s; not Marian’s father’s; tramp And poacher, whom I found for what he was, And, eager for her sake to rescue him, Forth swept from the open highway of the world, Road-dust and all,—till, like a woodland boar Most naturally unwilling to be tamed, He notched me with his tooth. But not a word To Marian! and I do not think, besides, He turned the tilting of the beam my way,— And if he laughed, as many swear, poor wretch, Nor he nor I supposed the hurt so deep. We’ll hope his next laugh may be merrier, In a better cause.’ ‘Blind, Romney?’ ‘Ah, my friend, You’ll learn to say it in a cheerful voice. I, too, at first desponded. To be blind, ​Turned out of nature, mulcted as a man, Refused the daily largesse of the sun To humble creatures! When the fever’s heat Dropped from me, as the flame did from my house, And left me ruined like it, stripped of all The hues and shapes of aspectable life, A mere bare blind stone in the blaze of day, A man, upon the outside of the earth, As dark as ten feet under, in the grave,— Why that seemed hard.’ ‘No hope?’ ‘A tear! you weep, Divine Aurora? tears upon my hand! I’ve seen you weeping for a mouse, a bird,— But, weep for me, Aurora? Yes, there’s hope. Not hope of sight,—I could be learned, dear, And tell you in what Greek and Latin name The visual nerve is withered to the root, Though the outer eyes appear indifferent, Unspotted in their crystals. But there’s hope. The spirit, from behind this dethroned sense, Sees, waits in patience till the walls break up From which the bas-relief and fresco have dropt. There’s hope. The man here, once so arrogant And restless, so ambitious, for his part, Of dealing with statistically packed Disorders, (from a pattern on his nail,) And packing such things quite another way,— Is now contented. From his personal loss He has come to hope for others when they lose, ​And wear a gladder faith in what we gain . . Through bitter experience, compensation sweet, Like that tear, sweetest. I am quiet now,— As tender surely for the suffering world, But quiet,—sitting at the wall to learn, Content, henceforth, to do the thing I can: For, though as powerless, said I, as a stone, A stone can still give shelter to a worm, And it is worth while being a stone for that: There’s hope, Aurora.’ ‘Is there hope for me? For me?—and is there room beneath the stone For such a worm?—And if I came and said . . What all this weeping scarce will let me say, And yet what women cannot say at all, But weeping bitterly . . (the pride keeps up, Until the heart breaks under it) . . I love,— I love you, Romney’ . . . ‘Silence!’ he exclaimed, ‘A woman’s pity sometimes makes her mad. A man’s distraction must not cheat his soul To take advantage of it. Yet, ’tis hard— Farewell, Aurora.’ ‘But I love you, sir: And when a woman says she loves a man, The man must hear her, though he love her not. Which . . hush! . . he has leave to answer in his turn; She will not surely blame him. As for me, You call it pity,—think I’m generous? ’Twere somewhat easier, for a woman proud, ​As I am, and I’m very vilely proud, To let it pass as such, and press on you Love born of pity,—seeing that excellent loves Are born so, often, nor the quicklier die,— And this would set me higher by the head Than now I stand. No matter: let the truth Stand high: Aurora must be humble: no, My love’s not pity merely. Obviously I’m not a generous woman, never was. Or else, of old, I had not looked so near To weights and measures, grudging you the power To give, as first I scorned your power to judge For me, Aurora: I would have no gifts Forsooth, but God’s,—and I would use them, too, According to my pleasure and my choice, As He and I were equals,—you, below, Excluded from that level of interchange Admitting benefaction. You were wrong In much? you said so. I was wrong in most. Oh, most! You only thought to rescue men By half-means, half-way, seeing half their wants, While thinking nothing of your personal gain. But I who saw the human nature broad, At both sides, comprehending, too, the soul’s, And all the high necessities of Art, Betrayed the thing I saw, and wronged my own life For which I pleaded. Passioned to exalt The artist’s instinct in me at the cost Of putting down the woman’s—I forgot No perfect artist is developed here ​From any imperfect woman. Flower from root, And spiritual from natural, grade by grade In all our life. A handful of the earth To make God’s image! the despised poor earth, The healthy odorous earth,—I missed, with it, The divine Breath that blows the nostrils out To ineffable inflatus: ay, the breath Which love is. Art is much, but love is more. O Art, my Art, thou’rt much, but Love is more! Art symbolises heaven, but Love is God And makes heaven. I, Aurora, fell from mine: I would not be a woman like the rest, A simple woman who believes in love, And owns the right of love because she loves, And, hearing she’s beloved, is satisfied With what contents God: I must analyse, Confront, and question; just as if a fly Refused to warm itself in any sun Till such was in leone: I must fret Forsooth, because the month was only May; Be faithless of the kind of proffered love, And captious, lest it miss my dignity, And scornful, that my lover sought a wife To use . . to use! O Romney, O my love, I am changed since then, changed wholly,—for indeed, If now you’d stoop so low to take my love, And use it roughly, without stint or spare, As men use common things with more behind, (And, in this, ever would be more behind) To any mean and ordinary end,— ​The joy would set me like a star, in heaven, So high up, I should shine because of height And not of virtue. Yet in one respect, Just one, beloved, I am in no wise changed: I love you, loved you . . loved you first and last, And love you on for ever. Now I know I loved you always, Romney. She who died Knew that, and said so; Lady Waldemar Knows that; . . and Marian: I had known the same Except that I was prouder than I knew, And not so honest. Ay, and as I live, I should have died so, crushing in my hand This rose of love, the wasp inside and all,— Ignoring ever to my soul and you Both rose and pain,—except for this great loss, This great despair,—to stand before your face And know I cannot win a look of yours. You think, perhaps, I am not changed from pride, And that I chiefly bear to say such words Because you cannot shame me with your eyes? O calm, grand eyes, extinguished in a storm, Blown out like lights o’er melancholy seas, Though shrieked for by the shipwrecked,—O my Dark, My Cloud,—to go before me every day While I go ever toward the wilderness,— I would that you could see me bare to the soul!— If this be pity, ’tis so for myself, And not for Romney; he can stand alone; A man like him is never overcome: No woman like me, counts him pitiable ​While saints applaud him. He mistook the world: But I mistook my own heart,—and that slip Was fatal. Romney,—will you leave me here? So wrong, so proud, so weak, so unconsoled, So mere a woman!—and I love you so,— I love you, Romney.’ Could I see his face, I wept so? Did I drop against his breast, Or did his arms constrain me? Were my cheeks Hot, overflooded, with my tears, or his? And which of our two large explosive hearts So shook me? That, I know not. There were words That broke in utterance . . melted, in the fire; Embrace, that was convulsion, . . then a kiss . . As long and silent as the ecstatic night,— And deep, deep, shuddering breaths, which meant beyond Whatever could be told by word or kiss.
But what he said . . I have written day by day, With somewhat even writing. Did I think That such a passionate rain would intercept And dash this last page? What he said, indeed, I fain would write it down here like the rest To keep it in my eyes, as in my ears, The heart’s sweet scripture, to be read at night When weary, or at morning when afraid, And lean my heaviest oath on when I swear That when all’s done, all tried, all counted here, All great arts, and all good philosophies,— This love just puts its hand out in a dream ​And straight outreaches all things. What he said, I fain would write. But if an angel spoke In thunder, should we, haply, know much more Than that it thundered? If a cloud came down And wrapt us wholly, could we draw its shape, As if on the outside, and not overcome? And so he spake. His breath against my face Confused his words, yet made them more intense,— As when the sudden finger of the wind Will wipe a row of single city-lamps To a pure white line of flame, more luminous Because of obliteration; more intense The intimate presence carrying in itself Complete communication, as with souls Who, having put the body off, perceive Through simply being. Thus, ’twas granted me To know he loved me to the depth and height Of such large natures, ever competent With grand horizons by the land or sea, To love’s grand sunrise. Small spheres hold small fires: But he loved largely, as a man can love Who, baffled in his love, dares live his life, Accept the ends which God loves, for his own, And life a constant aspect. From the day I had brought to England my poor searching face, (An orphan even of my father’s grave) He had loved me, watched me, watched his soul in mine, Which in me grew and heightened into love. ​For he, a boy still, had been told the tale Of how a fairy bride from Italy, With smells of oleanders in her hair, Was coming through the vines to touch his hand; Whereat the blood of boyhood on the palm Made sudden heats. And when at last I came, And lived before him, lived, and rarely smiled, He smiled and loved me for the thing I was, As every child will love the year’s first flower, (Not certainly the fairest of the year, But, in which, the complete year seems to blow) The poor sad snowdrop,—growing between drifts, Mysterious medium ’twixt the plant and frost, So faint with winter while so quick with spring, So doubtful if to thaw itself away With that snow near it. Not that Romney Leigh Had loved me coldly. If I thought so once, It was as if I had held my hand in fire And shook for cold. But now I understood For ever, that the very fire and heat Of troubling passion in him, burned him clear, And shaped to dubious order, word and act. That, just because he loved me over all, All wealth, all lands, all social privilege, To which chance made him unexpected heir,— And, just because on all these lesser gifts, Constrained by conscience and the sense of wrong He had stamped with steady hand God’s arrow-mark Of dedication to the human need, He thought it should be so too, with his love; ​He, passionately loving, would bring down His love, his life, his best, (because the best,) His bride of dreams, who walked so still and high Through flowery poems as through meadow-grass The dust of golden lilies on her feet, That she should walk beside him on the rooks In all that clang and hewing out of men, And help the work of help which was his life, And prove he kept back nothing,—not his soul. And when I failed him,—for I failed him, I— And when it seemed he had missed my love,—he thought, ‘Aurora makes room for a working-noon;’ And so, self-girded with torn strips of hope, Took up his life, as if it were for death, (Just capable of one heroic aim,) And threw it in the thickest of the world,— At which men laughed as if he had drowned a dog: Nor wonder,—since Aurora failed him first! The morning and the evening made his day.
But oh, the night! oh, bitter-sweet! oh, sweet! O dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy Of darkness! O great mystery of love,— In which absorbed, loss, anguish, treason’s self Enlarges rapture,—as a pebble dropt In some full wine-cup, over-brims the wine! While we two sate together, leaned that night So close, my very garments crept and thrilled With strange electric life; and both my cheeks ​Grew red, then pale, with touches from my hair In which his breath was; while the golden moon Was hung before our faces as the badge Of some sublime inherited despair, Since ever to be seen by only one,— A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh, Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from a smile,— ‘Thank God, who made me blind, to make me see! Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of souls, Which rul’st for evermore both day and night! I am happy.’ I clung closer to his breast, As sword that, after battle, flings to sheathe; And, in that hurtle of united souls, The mystic motions which in common moods Are shut beyond our sense, broke in on us, And, as we sate, we felt the old earth spin, And all the starry turbulence of worlds Swing round us in their audient circles, till If that same golden moon were overhead Or if beneath our feet, we did not know.
And then calm, equal, smooth with weights of joy, His voice rose, as some chief musician’s song Amid the old Jewish temple’s Selah-pause, And bade me mark how we two met at last Upon this moon-bathed promontory of earth, To give up much on each side, then, take all. ‘Beloved,’ it sang, ‘we must be here to work; ​And men who work, can only work for men, And, not to work in vain, must comprehend Humanity, and, so work humanly, And raise men’s bodies still by raising souls, As God did, first.’ ‘But stand upon the earth,’ I said, ‘to raise them,—(this is human too; There’s nothing high which has not first been low; My humbleness, said One, has made me great!) As God did, last.’ ‘And work all silently, And simply,’ he returned, ‘as God does all; Distort our nature never, for our work, Nor count our right hands stronger for being hoofs. The man most man, with tenderest human hands, Works best for men,—as God in Nazareth.’
He paused upon the word, and then resumed; ‘Fewer programmes; we who have no prescience. Fewer systems; we who are held and do not hold. Less mapping out of masses, to be saved, By nations or by sexes. Fourier’s void, And Comte is dwarfed,—and Cabet, puerile. Subsists no law of life outside of life; No perfect manners, without Christian souls: The Christ himself had been no Lawgiver, Unless He had given the life, too, with the law.’
I echoed thoughtfully—‘The man, most man, ​Works best for men: and, if most man indeed, He gets his manhood plainest from his soul: While, obviously, this stringent soul itself Obeys our old rules of development; The Spirit ever witnessing in ours, And Love, the soul of soul, within the soul, Evolving it sublimely. First, God’s love.’
‘And next,’ he smiled, ‘the love of wedded souls, Which still presents that mystery’s counterpart. Sweet shadow-rose, upon the water of life, Of such a mystic substance, Sharon gave A name to! human, vital, fructuous rose, Whose calyx holds the multitude of leaves.— Loves filial, loves fraternal, neighbour-loves, And civic, . . all fair petals, all good scents, All reddened, sweetened from one central Heart!’
‘Alas,’ I cried, ‘it was not long ago, You swore this very social rose smelt ill.’
‘Alas,’ he answered, ‘is it a rose at all? The filial’s thankless, the fraternal’s hard, The rest is lost. I do but stand and think, Across dim waters of a troubled life The Flower of Heaven so vainly overhangs,— What perfect counterpart would be in sight, If tanks were clearer. Let us clean the tubes,
He stood a moment with erected brows, In silence, as a creature might, who gazed: Stood calm, and fed his blind, majestic eyes Upon the thought of perfect noon. And when I saw his soul saw,—‘Jasper first,’ I said, ‘And second, sapphire; third, chalcedony; The rest in order, . . last, an amethyst.’
THE END.
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.