There seemed more true life in my father's grave Than in all England. Since that threw me off Who fain would cleave, (his latest will, they say, Consigned me to his land) I only thought Of lying quiet there where I was thrown Like sea-weed on the rocks, and suffer her To prick me to a pattern with her pin, Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf from leaf, And dry out from my drowned anatomy The last sea-salt left in me.
I broke the copious curls upon my head In braids, because she liked smooth ordered hair. I left off saying my sweet Tuscan words Which still at any stirring of the heart Came up to float across the English phrase, As lilies, (Bene. . or che ch'è) because She liked my father's child to speak his tongue. I learnt the collects and the catechism, The creeds, from Athanasius back to Nice, The Articles.. the Tracts against the times, (By no means Buonaventure's 'Prick of Love,') And various popular synopses of
Inhuman doctrines never taught by John, Because she liked instructed piety.
I learnt my complement of classic French (Kept pure of Balzac and neologism,) And German also, since she liked a range Of liberal education,--tongues, not books.
I learnt a little algebra, a little
Of the mathematics,-brushed with extreme flounce The circle of the sciences, because
She misliked women who are frivolous.
I learnt the royal genealogies
Of Oviedo, the internal laws
Of the Burmese Empire, . . by how many feet Mount Chimborazo outsoars Himmeleh,
What navigable river joins itself
To Lara, and what census of the year five Was taken at Klagenfurt,―because she liked A general insight into useful facts.
I learnt much music,-such as would have been As quite impossible in Johnson's day
As still it might be wished-fine sleights of hand And unimagined fingering, shuffling off
The hearer's soul through hurricanes of notes To a noisy Tophet; and I drew .. costumes From French engravings, nereids neatly draped, With smirks of simmering godship,-I washed in From nature, landscapes, (rather say, washed out.) I danced the polka and Cellarius,
Spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled flowers in wax, Because she liked accomplishments in girls.
I read a score of books on womanhood To prove, if women do not think at all, They may teach thinking, (to a maiden aunt Or else the author)-books demonstrating Their right of comprehending husband's talk When not too deep, and even of answering With pretty may it please you,' or 'so it is,'— Their rapid insight and fine aptitude, Particular worth and general missionariness, As long as they keep quiet by the fire And never say 'no' when the world says ‘ay,' For that is fatal,-their angelic reach Of virtue, chiefly used to sit and darn,
And fatten household sinners,—their, in brief, Potential faculty in everything
Of abdicating power in it: she owned
She liked a woman to be womanly,
And English women, she thanked God and sighed. (Some people always sigh in thanking God) Were models to the universe. And last
I learnt cross-stitch, because she did not like To see me wear the night with empty hands, A-doing nothing. So, my shepherdess Was something after all, (the pastoral saints Be praised for't) leaning lovelorn with pink eyes To match her shoes, when I mistook the silks; Her head uncrushed by that round weight of hat So strangely similar to the tortoise-shell Which slew the tragic poet.
The works of women are symbolical.
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir,
To put on when you're weary—or a stool
To tumble over and vex you . . 'curse that stool!' Or else at best, a cushion where you lean
And sleep, and dream of something we are not, But would be for your sake. Alas, alas!
This hurts most, this . . that, after all, we are paid The worth of our work, perhaps.
Those years of education, (to return)
I wondered if Brinvilliers suffered more
In the water torture, . . flood succeeding flood To drench the incapable throat and split the veins.. Than I did. Certain of your feebler souls
Go out in such a process; many pine
To a sick, inodorous light; my own endured: I had relations in the Unseen, and drew
The elemental nutriment and heat
From nature, as earth feels the sun at nights, Or as a babe sucks surely in the dark, I kept the life, thrust on me, on the outside Of the inner life, with all its ample room For heart and lungs, for will and intellect, Inviolable by conventions. God,
I thank thee for that grace of thine!
I felt no life which was not patience,—did The thing she bade me, without heed to a thing Beyond it, sate in just the chair she placed, With back against the window, to exclude The sight of the great lime-tree on the lawn, Which seemed to have come on purpose from the woods
To bring the house a message,-ay, and walked Demurely in her carpeted low rooms,
As if I should not, harkening my own steps, Misdoubt I was alive. I read her books, Was civil to her cousin, Romney Leigh, Gave ear to her vicar, tea to her visitors, And heard them whisper, when I changed a cup, (I blushed for joy at that)—"The Italian child, For all her blue eyes and her quiet ways, Thrives ill in England; she is paler yet Than when we came the last time; she will die.'
'Will die.' My cousin, Romney Leigh, blushed too, With sudden anger, and approaching me Said low between his teeth-'You're wicked now? You wish to die and leave the world a-dusk For others, with your naughty light blown out?' I looked into his face defyingly.
He might have known, that, being what I was, 'Twas natural to like to get away
As far as dead folk can; and then indeed Some people make no trouble when they die. He turned and went abruptly, slammed the door And shut his dog out.
Romney, Romney Leigh. I have not named my cousin hitherto,
And yet I used him as a sort of friend; My elder by few years, but cold and shy And absent. . tender when he thought of it, Which scarcely was imperative, grave betimes, As well as early master of Leigh Hall, Whereof the nightmare sate upon his youth Repressing all its seasonable delights, And agonising with a ghastly sense Of universal hideous want and wrong To incriminate possession. When he came From college to the country, very oft He crossed the hills on visits to my aunt, With gifts of blue grapes from the hothouses, A book in one hand, -mere statistics, (if
I chanced to lift the cover) count of all
The goats whose beards are sprouting down toward hell.
Against God's separating judgment-hour.
And she, she almost loved him,—even allowed That sometimes he should seem to sigh my way;
It made him easier to be pitiful,
And sighing was his gift. So, undisturbed At whiles she let him shut my music up
And push my needles down, and lead me out
To see in that south angle of the house The figs grow black as if by a Tuscan rock,
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