Romney’s Remorse

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

　　

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‘BEAT, little heart—I give you this and this’ Who are you? What! the Lady Hamilton? Good, I am never weary painting you. To sit once more? Cassandra, Hebe, Joan, Or spinning at your wheel beside the vine— Bacchante, what you will; and if I fail To conjure and concentrate into form And colour all you are, the fault is less In me than Art. What Artist ever yet Could make pure light live on the canvas? Art! Why should I so disrelish that short word? Where am I? snow on all the hills! so hot, So fever’d! never colt would more delight To roll himself in meadow grass than I To wallow in that winter of the hills. Nurse, were you hired? or came of your own will To wait on one so broken, so forlorn? Have I not met you somewhere long ago? I am all but sure I have—in Kendal church— O yes! I hired you for a season there, And then we parted; but you look so kind That you will not deny my sultry throat One draught of icy water. There—you spill The drops upon my forehead. Your hand shakes. I am ashamed. I am a trouble to you, Could kneel for your forgiveness. Are they tears? For me—they do me too much grace—for me? O Mary, Mary! Vexing you with words! Words only, born of fever, or the fumes Of that dark opiate dose you gave me,—words, Wild babble. I have stumbled back again Into the common clay, the sounder self. God stay me there, if only for your sake, The truest, kindliest, noblest-hearted wife That ever wore a Christian marriage-ring. My curse upon the Master’s apothegm, That wife and children drag an Artist down! This seem’d my lodestar in the Heaven of Art, And lured me from the household fire on earth. To you my days have been a life-long lie, Grafted on half a truth; and tho’ you say ‘Take comfort you have won the Painter’s fame,’ The best in me that sees the worst in me, And groans to see it, finds no comfort there. What fame? I am not Raphaël, Titian—no Nor even a Sir Joshua, some will cry. Wrong there! The painter’s fame? but mine, that grew Blown into glittering by the popular breath, May float awhile beneath the sun, may roll The rainbow hues of heaven about it— There! The colour’d bubble bursts above the abyss Of Darkness, utter Lethe. Is it so? Her sad eyes plead for my own fame with me To make it dearer. Look, the sun has risen To flame along another dreary day. Your hand. How bright you keep your marriage-ring! Raise me. I thank you. Has your opiate then Bred this black mood? or am I conscious, more Than other Masters, of the chasm between Work and Ideal? Or does the gloom of Age And suffering cloud the height I stand upon Even from myself? stand? stood . . . no more. And yet The world would lose, if such a wife as you Should vanish unrecorded. Might I crave One favour? I am bankrupt of all claim On your obedience, and my strongest wish Falls flat before your least unwillingness. Still would you—if it please you—sit to me? I dream’d last night of that clear summer noon, When seated on a rock, and foot to foot With your own shadow in the placid lake, You claspt our infant daughter, heart to heart. I had been among the hills, and brought you down A length of staghorn-moss, and this you twined About her cap. I see the picture yet, Mother and child. A sound from far away, No louder than a bee among the flowers, A fall of water lull’d the noon asleep. You still’d it for the moment with a song Which often echo’d in me, while I stood Before the great Madonna-masterpieces Of ancient Art in Paris, or in Rome. Mary, my crayons! if I can, I will. You should have been—I might have made you once, Had I but known you as I know you now— The true Alcestis of the time. Your song— Sit, listen! I remember it, a proof That I—even I—at times remember’d you. ‘Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat! Beat upon mine! you are mine, my sweet! All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet, My sweet.’ Less profile! turn to me—three-quarter face. ‘Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss! For I give you this, and I give you this And I blind your pretty blue eyes with a kiss! Sleep!’ Too early blinded by the kiss of death— ‘Father and Mother will watch you grow’— You watch’d not I, she did not grow, she died. ‘Father and Mother will watch you grow, And gather the roses whenever they blow, And find the white heather wherever you go, My sweet.’ Ah, my white heather only blooms in heaven With Milton’s amaranth. There, there, there! a child Had shamed me at it—Down, you idle tools, Stampt into dust—tremulous, all awry, Blurr’d like a landskip in a ruffled pool,— Not one stroke firm. This Art, that harlot-like Seduced me from you, leaves me harlot-like, Who love her still, and whimper, impotent To win her back before I die—and then— Then, in the loud world’s bastard judgment-day, One truth will damn me with the mindless mob, Who feel no touch of my temptation, more Than all the myriad lies, that blacken round The corpse of every man that gains a name; ‘This model husband, this fine Artist’! Fool, What matters? Six foot deep of burial mould Will dull their comments! Ay, but when the shout Of His descending peals from Heaven, and throbs Thro’ earth, and all her graves, if He should ask ‘Why left you wife and children? for my sake, According to my word?’ and I replied ‘Nay, Lord, for Art,’ why, that would sound so mean That all the dead, who wait the doom of Hell For bolder sins than mine, adulteries, Wife-murders,—nay, the ruthless Mussulman Who flings his bowstrung Harem in the sea, Would turn, and glare at me, and point and jeer, And gibber at the worm, who, living, made The wife of wives a widow-bride, and lost Salvation for a sketch. I am wild again! The coals of fire you heap upon my head Have crazed me. Someone knocking there without? No! Will my Indian brother come? to find Me or my coffin? Should I know the man? This worn-out Reason dying in her house May leave the windows blinded, and if so, Bid him farewell for me, and tell him— Hope! I hear a death-bed Angel whisper ‘Hope.’ “The miserable have no medicine But only Hope!” He said it . . . in the play. His crime was of the senses; of the mind Mine; worse, cold, calculated. Tell my son— O let me lean my head upon your breast. ‘Beat little heart’ on this foul brain of mine. I once had friends—and many—none like you. I love you more than when we married. Hope! O yes, I hope, or fancy that, perhaps, Human forgiveness touches heaven, and thence— For you forgive me, you are sure of that— Reflected, sends a light on the forgiven.

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