Coventry Patmore The Victories of Love, and Other Poems
BOOK II
I. FROM JANE TO HER MOTHER
Thank Heaven, the burthens on the heart Are not half known till they depart! Although I long’d, for many a year, To love with love that casts out fear, My Frederick’s kindness frighten’d me, And heaven seem’d less far off than he; And in my fancy I would trace A lady with an angel’s face, That made devotion simply debt, Till sick with envy and regret, And wicked grief that God should e’er Make women, and not make them fair. That me might love me more because Another in his memory was, And that my indigence might be To him what Baby’s was to me, The chief of charms, who could have thought? But God’s wise way is to give nought Till we with asking it are tired; And when, indeed, the change desired Comes, lest we give ourselves the praise, It comes by Providence, not Grace; And mostly our thanks for granted pray’rs Are groans at unexpected cares, First Baby went to heaven, you know, And, five weeks after, Grace went, too, Then he became more talkative, And, stooping to my heart, would give Signs of his love, which pleased me more Than all the proofs he gave before; And, in that time of our great grief, We talk’d religion for relief; For, though we very seldom name Religion, we now think the same! Oh, what a bar is thus removed To loving and to being loved! For no agreement really is In anything when none’s in this. Why, Mother, once, if Frederick press’d His wife against his hearty breast, The interior difference seem’d to tear My own, until I could not bear The trouble. ’Twas a dreadful strife, And show’d, indeed, that faith is life. He never felt this. If he did, I’m sure it could not have been hid; For wives, I need not say to you, Can feel just what their husbands do, Without a word or look; but then It is not so, you know, with men. From that time many a Scripture text Help’d me, which had, before, perplex’d. Oh, what a wond’rous word seem’d this He is my head, as Christ is his! None ever could have dared to see In marriage such a dignity For man, and for his wife, still less, Such happy, happy lowliness, Had God himself not made it plain! This revelation lays the rein— If I may speak so—on the neck Of a wife’s love, takes thence the check Of conscience, and forbids to doubt Its measure is to be without All measure, and a fond excess Is here her rule of godliness. I took him not for love but fright; He did but ask a dreadful right. In this was love, that he loved me The first, who was mere poverty. All that I know of love he taught; And love is all I know of aught. My merit is so small by his, That my demerit is my bliss. My life is hid with him in Christ, Never therefrom to be enticed; And in his strength have I such rest As when the baby on my breast Finds what it knows not how to seek, And, very happy, very weak, Lies, only knowing all is well, Pillow’d on kindness palpable.
II. FROM LADY CLITHEROE TO MARY CHURCHILL
Dear Saint, I’m still at High-Hurst Park. The house is fill’d with folks of mark. Honoria suits a good estate Much better than I hoped. How fate Loads her with happiness and pride! And such a loving lord, beside! But between us, Sweet, everything Has limits, and to build a wing To this old house, when Courtholm stands Empty upon his Berkshire lands, And all that Honor might be near Papa, was buying love too dear. With twenty others, there are two Guests here, whose names will startle you: Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Graham! I thought he stay’d away for shame. He and his wife were ask’d, you know, And would not come, four years ago. You recollect Miss Smythe found out Who she had been, and all about Her people at the Powder-mill; And how the fine Aunt tried to instil Haut ton, and how, at last poor Jane Had got so shy and gauche that, when The Dockyard gentry came to sup, She always had to be lock’d up; And some one wrote to us and said Her mother was a kitchen-maid. Dear Mary, you’ll be charm’d to know It must be all a fib. But, oh, She is the oddest little Pet On which my eyes were ever set! She’s so outrée and natural That, when she first arrived, we all Wonder’d, as when a robin comes In through the window to eat crumbs At breakfast with us. She has sense, Humility, and confidence; And, save in dressing just a thought Gayer in colours than she ought, (To-day she looks a cross between Gipsy and Fairy, red and green,) She always happens to do well. And yet one never quite can tell What she might do or utter next. Lord Clitheroe is much perplex’d. Her husband, every now and then, Looks nervous; all the other men Are charm’d. Yet she has neither grace, Nor one good feature in her face. Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head, Like very altar-fires to Fred, Whose steps she follows everywhere Like a tame duck, to the despair Of Colonel Holmes, who does his part To break her funny little heart. Honor’s enchanted. ’Tis her view That people, if they’re good and true, And treated well, and let alone, Will kindly take to what’s their own, And always be original, Like children. Honor’s just like all The rest of us! But, thinking so, ’Tis well she miss’d Lord Clitheroe, Who hates originality, Though he puts up with it in me. Poor Mrs. Graham has never been To the Opera! You should have seen The innocent way she told the Earl She thought Plays sinful when a girl, And now she never had a chance! Frederick’s complacent smile and glance Towards her, show’d me, past a doubt, Honoria had been quite cut out. ’Tis very strange; for Mrs. Graham, Though Frederick’s fancy none can blame, Seems the last woman you’d have thought Her lover would have ever sought. She never reads, I find, nor goes Anywhere; so that I suppose She got at all she ever knew By growing up, as kittens do. Talking of kittens, by-the-bye, You have more influence than I With dear Honoria. Get her, Dear, To be a little more severe With those sweet Children. They’ve the run Of all the place. When school was done, Maud burst in, while the Earl was there, With ‘Oh, Mama, do be a bear!’ Do you know, Dear, this odd wife of Fred Adores his old Love in his stead! She is so nice, yet, I should say, Not quite the thing for every day. Wonders are wearying! Felix goes Next Sunday with her to the Close, And you will judge. Honoria asks All Wiltshire Belles here; Felix basks Like Puss in fire-shine, when the room Is thus aflame with female bloom. But then she smiles when most would pout; And so his lawless loves go out With the last brocade. ’Tis not the same, I fear, with Mrs. Frederick Graham. Honoria should not have her here,— And this you might just hint, my Dear,— For Felix says he never saw Such proof of what he holds for law, That ‘beauty is love which can be seen.’ Whatever he by this may mean, Were it not dreadful if he fell In love with her on principle!
III. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM
Mother, I told you how, at first, I fear’d this visit to the Hurst. Fred must, I felt, be so distress’d By aught in me unlike the rest Who come here. But I find the place Delightful; there’s such ease, and grace, And kindness, and all seem to be On such a high equality. They have not got to think, you know, How far to make the money go. But Frederick says it’s less the expense Of money, than of sound good-sense, Quickness to care what others feel And thoughts with nothing to conceal; Which I’ll teach Johnny. Mrs. Vaughan Was waiting for us on the Lawn, And kiss’d and call’d me ‘Cousin.’ Fred Neglected his old friends, she said. He laugh’d, and colour’d up at this. She was, you know, a flame of his; But I’m not jealous! Luncheon done, I left him, who had just begun To talk about the Russian War With an old Lady, Lady Carr,— A Countess, but I’m more afraid, A great deal, of the Lady’s Maid,— And went with Mrs. Vaughan to see The pictures, which appear’d to be Of sorts of horses, clowns, and cows Call’d Wouvermans and Cuyps and Dows. And then she took me up, to show Her bedroom, where, long years ago, A Queen slept. ’Tis all tapestries Of Cupids, Gods, and Goddesses, And black, carved oak. A curtain’d door Leads thence into her soft Boudoir, Where even her husband may but come By favour. He, too, has his room, Kept sacred to his solitude. Did I not think the plan was good? She ask’d me; but I said how small Our house was, and that, after all, Though Frederick would not say his prayers At night till I was safe upstairs, I thought it wrong to be so shy Of being good when I was by. ‘Oh, you should humour him!’ she said, With her sweet voice and smile; and led The way to where the children ate Their dinner, and Miss Williams sate. She’s only Nursery-Governess, Yet they consider her no less Than Lord or Lady Carr, or me. Just think how happy she must be! The Ball-Room, with its painted sky Where heavy angels seem to fly, Is a dull place; its size and gloom Make them prefer, for drawing-room, The Library, all done up new And comfortable, with a view Of Salisbury Spire between the boughs. When she had shown me through the house, (I wish I could have let her know That she herself was half the show; She is so handsome, and so kind!) She fetch’d the children, who had dined; And, taking one in either hand, Show’d me how all the grounds were plann’d. The lovely garden gently slopes To where a curious bridge of ropes Crosses the Avon to the Park. We rested by the stream, to mark The brown backs of the hovering trout. Frank tickled one, and took it out From under a stone. We saw his owls, And awkward Cochin-China fowls, And shaggy pony in the croft; And then he dragg’d us to a loft, Where pigeons, as he push’d the door, Fann’d clear a breadth of dusty floor, And set us coughing. I confess I trembled for my nice silk dress. I cannot think how Mrs. Vaughan Ventured with that which she had on,— A mere white wrapper, with a few Plain trimmings of a quiet blue, But, oh, so pretty! Then the bell For dinner rang. I look’d quite well (‘Quite charming,’ were the words Fred said,) With the new gown that I’ve had made I am so proud of Frederick. He’s so high-bred and lordly-like With Mrs. Vaughan! He’s not quite so At home with me; but that, you know, I can’t expect, or wish. ’Twould hurt, And seem to mock at my desert. Not but that I’m a duteous wife To Fred; but, in another life, Where all are fair that have been true, I hope I shall be graceful too, Like Mrs. Vaughan. And, now, good-bye! That happy thought has made me cry, And feel half sorry that my cough, In this fine air, is leaving off.
IV. FROM FREDERICK TO MRS. GRAHAM
Honoria, trebly fair and mild With added loves of lord and child, Is else unalter’d. Years, which wrong The rest, touch not her beauty, young Within youth which rather seems her clime, Than aught that’s relative to time. How beyond hope was heard the prayer I offer’d in my love’s despair! Could any, whilst there’s any woe, Be wholly blest, then she were so. She is, and is aware of it, Her husband’s endless benefit; But, though their daily ways reveal The depth of private joy they feel, ’Tis not their bearing each to each That does abroad their secret preach, But such a lovely good-intent To all within their government And friendship as, ’tis well discern’d, Each of the other must have learn’d; For no mere dues of neighbourhood Ever begot so blest a mood. And fair, indeed, should be the few God dowers with nothing else to do, And liberal of their light, and free To show themselves, that all may see! For alms let poor men poorly give The meat whereby men’s bodies live; But they of wealth are stewards wise Whose graces are their charities. The sunny charm about this home Makes all to shine who thither come. My own dear Jane has caught its grace, And, honour’d, honours too the place. Across the lawn I lately walk’d Alone, and watch’d where mov’d and talk’d, Gentle and goddess-like of air, Honoria and some Stranger fair. I chose a path unblest by these; When one of the two Goddesses, With my Wife’s voice, but softer, said, ‘Will you not walk with us, dear Fred?’ She moves, indeed, the modest peer Of all the proudest ladies here. Unawed she talks with men who stand Among the leaders of the land, And women beautiful and wise, With England’s greatness in their eyes. To high, traditional good-sense, And knowledge ripe without pretence, And human truth exactly hit By quiet and conclusive wit, Listens my little, homely Jane, Mistakes the points and laughs amain; And, after, stands and combs her hair, And calls me much the wittiest there! With reckless loyalty, dear Wife, She lays herself about my life! The joy I might have had of yore I have not; for ’tis now no more, With me, the lyric time of youth, And sweet sensation of the truth. Yet, past my hope or purpose bless’d, In my chance choice let be confess’d The tenderer Providence that rules The fates of children and of fools! I kiss’d the kind, warm neck that slept, And from her side this morning stepp’d, To bathe my brain from drowsy night In the sharp air and golden light. The dew, like frost, was on the pane. The year begins, though fair, to wane. There is a fragrance in its breath Which is not of the flowers, but death; And green above the ground appear The lilies of another year. I wander’d forth, and took my path Among the bloomless aftermath; And heard the steadfast robin sing As if his own warm heart were Spring. And watch’d him feed where, on the yew, Hung honey’d drops of crimson dew; And then return’d, by walls of peach, And pear-trees bending to my reach, And rose-beds with the roses gone, To bright-laid breakfast. Mrs. Vaughan Was there, none with her. I confess I love her than of yore no less! But she alone was loved of old; Now love is twain, nay, manifold; For, somehow, he whose daily life Adjusts itself to one true wife, Grows to a nuptial, near degree With all that’s fair and womanly. Therefore, as more than friends, we met, Without constraint, without regret; The wedded yoke that each had donn’d Seeming a sanction, not a bond.
V. FROM MRS. GRAHAM
Your love lacks joy, your letter says. Yes; love requires the focal space Of recollection or of hope, E’er it can measure its own scope. Too soon, too soon comes Death to show We love more deeply than we know! The rain, that fell upon the height Too gently to be call’d delight, Within the dark vale reappears As a wild cataract of tears; And love in life should strive to see Sometimes what love in death would be! Easier to love, we so should find. It is than to be just and kind. She’s gone: shut close the coffin-lid: What distance for another did That death has done for her! The good Once gazed upon with heedless mood, Now fills with tears the famish’d eye, And turns all else to vanity. ’Tis sad to see, with death between, The good we have pass’d and have not seen! How strange appear the words of all! The looks of those that live appal. They are the ghosts, and check the breath: There’s no reality but death, And hunger for some signal given That we shall have our own in heaven. But this the God of love lets be A horrible uncertainty. How great her smallest virtue seems, How small her greatest fault! Ill dreams Were those that foil’d with loftier grace The homely kindness of her face. ’Twas here she sat and work’d, and there She comb’d and kiss’d the children’s hair; Or, with one baby at her breast, Another taught, or hush’d to rest. Praise does the heart no more refuse To the chief loveliness of use. Her humblest good is hence most high In the heavens of fond memory; And Love says Amen to the word, A prudent wife is from the Lord. Her worst gown’s kept, (’tis now the best, As that in which she oftenest dress’d,) For memory’s sake more precious grown Than she herself was for her own. Poor child! Foolish it seem’d to fly To sobs instead of dignity, When she was hurt. Now, none than all, Heart-rending and angelical That ignorance of what to do, Bewilder’d still by wrong from you: For what man ever yet had grace Ne’er to abuse his power and place? No magic of her voice or smile Suddenly raised a fairy isle, But fondness for her underwent An unregarded increment, Like that which lifts, through centuries, The coral-reef within the seas, Till, lo! the land where was the wave. Alas! ’tis everywhere her grave.
VI. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM
Dear Mother, I can surely tell, Now, that I never shall get well Besides the warning in my mind, All suddenly are grown so kind. Fred stopp’d the Doctor, yesterday, Downstairs, and, when he went away, Came smiling back, and sat with me, Pale, and conversing cheerfully About the Spring, and how my cough, In finer weather, would leave off. I saw it all, and told him plain I felt no hope of Spring again. Then he, after a word of jest, Burst into tears upon my breast, And own’d, when he could speak, he knew There was a little danger, too. This made me very weak and ill, And while, last night, I lay quite still, And, as he fancied, in the deep, Exhausted rest of my short sleep, I heard, or dream’d I heard him pray: ‘Oh, Father, take her not away! Let not life’s dear assurance lapse Into death’s agonised “Perhaps,” A hope without Thy promise, where Less than assurance is despair! Give me some sign, if go she must, That death’s not worse than dust to dust, Not heaven, on whose oblivious shore Joy I may have, but her no more! The bitterest cross, it seems to me, Of all is infidelity; And so, if I may choose, I’ll miss The kind of heaven which comes to this. If doom’d, indeed, this fever ceased, To die out wholly, like a beast, Forgetting all life’s ill success In dark and peaceful nothingness, I could but say, Thy will be done; For, dying thus, I were but one Of seed innumerable which ne’er In all the worlds shall bloom or bear. I’ve put life past to so poor use Well may’st Thou life to come refuse; And justice, which the spirit contents, Shall still in me all vain laments; Nay, pleased, I will, while yet I live, Think Thou my forfeit joy may’st give To some fresh life, else unelect, And heaven not feel my poor defect! Only let not Thy method be To make that life, and call it me; Still less to sever mine in twain, And tell each half to live again, And count itself the whole! To die, Is it love’s disintegrity? Answer me, “No,” and I, with grace, Will life’s brief desolation face, My ways, as native to the clime, Adjusting to the wintry time, Ev’n with a patient cheer thereof—’ He started up, hearing me cough. Oh, Mother, now my last doubt’s gone! He likes me more than Mrs. Vaughan; And death, which takes me from his side, Shows me, in very deed, his bride!
VII. FROM JANE TO FREDERICK
I leave this, Dear, for you to read, For strength and hope, when I am dead. When Grace died, I was so perplex’d, I could not find one helpful text; And when, a little while before, I saw her sobbing on the floor, Because I told her that in heaven She would be as the angels even, And would not want her doll, ’tis true A horrible fear within me grew, That, since the preciousness of love Went thus for nothing, mine might prove To be no more, and heaven’s bliss Some dreadful good which is not this. But being about to die makes clear Many dark things. I have no fear, Now that my love, my grief, my joy Is but a passion for a toy. I cannot speak at all, I find, The shining something in my mind That shows so much that, if I took My thoughts all down, ’twould make a book. God’s Word, which lately seem’d above The simpleness of human love, To my death-sharpen’d hearing tells Of little or of nothing else; And many things I hoped were true, When first they came, like songs, from you, Now rise with witness past the reach Of doubt, and I to you can teach, As if with felt authority And as things seen, what you taught me. Yet how? I have no words but those Which every one already knows: As, ‘No man hath at any time Seen God, but ’tis the love of Him Made perfect, and He dwells in us, If we each other love.’ Or thus, ‘My goodness misseth in extent Of Thee, Lord! In the excellent I know Thee; and the Saints on Earth Make all my love and holy mirth.’ And further, ‘Inasmuch as ye Did it to one of these, to Me Ye did it, though ye nothing thought Nor knew of Me, in that ye wrought.’ What shall I dread? Will God undo Our bond, which is all others too? And when I meet you will you say To my reclaiming looks, ‘Away! A dearer love my bosom warms With higher rights and holier charms. The children, whom thou here may’st see, Neighbours that mingle thee and me, And gaily on impartial lyres Renounce the foolish filial fires They felt, with “Praise to God on high, Goodwill to all else equally;” The trials, duties, service, tears; The many fond, confiding years Of nearness sweet with thee apart; The joy of body, mind, and heart; The love that grew a reckless growth, Unmindful that the marriage-oath To love in an eternal style Meant—only for a little while: Sever’d are now those bonds earth-wrought; All love, not new, stands here for nought!’ Why, it seems almost wicked, Dear, Even to utter such a fear! Are we not ‘heirs,’ as man and wife, ‘Together of eternal life?’ Was Paradise e’er meant to fade, To make which marriage first was made? Neither beneath him nor above Could man in Eden find his Love; Yet with him in the garden walk’d His God, and with Him mildly talk’d! Shall the humble preference offend In Heaven, which God did there commend? Are ‘Honourable and undefiled’ The names of aught from heaven exiled? And are we not forbid to grieve As without hope? Does God deceive, And call that hope which is despair, Namely, the heaven we should not share! Image and glory of the man, As he of God, is woman. Can This holy, sweet proportion die Into a dull equality? Are we not one flesh, yea, so far More than the babe and mother are, That sons are bid mothers to leave And to their wives alone to cleave, ‘For they two are one flesh!’ But ’tis In the flesh we rise. Our union is, You know ’tis said, ‘great mystery.’ Great mockery, it appears to me; Poor image of the spousal bond Of Christ and Church, if loosed beyond This life!—’Gainst which, and much more yet, There’s not a single word to set. The speech to the scoffing Sadducee Is not in point to you and me; For how could Christ have taught such clods That Caesar’s things are also God’s? The sort of Wife the Law could make Might well be ‘hated’ for Love’s sake, And left, like money, land, or house; For out of Christ is no true spouse. I used to think it strange of Him To make love’s after-life so dim, Or only clear by inference: But God trusts much to common sense, And only tells us what, without His Word, we could not have found out On fleshly tables of the heart He penn’d truth’s feeling counterpart In hopes that come to all: so, Dear, Trust these, and be of happy cheer, Nor think that he who has loved well Is of all men most miserable. There’s much more yet I want to say, But cannot now. You know my way Of feeling strong from Twelve till Two After my wine. I’ll write to you Daily some words, which you shall have To break the silence of the grave.