Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (629 page)

Assume a tragic part and throw out cues

For a beseeching lover.

WALPURGA.

Some one raps.

(Goes to the door.)

A letter — from the Graf.

ARMGART.

Then open it.

(WALPURGA still offers it.}

Nay, my head swims. Read it. I cannot see.

(WALPURGA opens it, reads and pauses.)

Read it. Have done! No matter what it is.

WALPURGA (reads in a low, hesitating voice).

“ I am deeply moved — my heart is rent, to hear of your illness and its cruel results, just now

communicated to me by Dr. Grahn. But surely it is possible that this result may not be permanent.

For youth such as yours, Time may hold in store something more than resignation: who shall say

that it does not hold renewal? I have not dared to ask admission to you in the hours of a recent

shock, but I cannot depart on a long mission without tendering my sympathy and my farewell. I

start this evening for the Caucasus, and thence I proceed to India, where I am intrusted by the

Government with business which may be of long duration.”

(WALPURGA sits down dejectedly.)

ARMGART (after a slight shudder, bitterly).

The Graf has much discretion. I am glad.

He spares us both a pain, not seeing me.

What I like least is that consoling hope —

That empty cup, so neatly ciphered “Time,”

Handed me as a cordial for despair.

(Slowly and dreamily) Time what a word to fling as charity!

Bland neutral word for slow, dull-beating pain —

Days, months, and years! — If I would wait for them.

(She takes up her hat and puts it on, then wraps her mantle round her. WALPURGA leaves the

room.)

Why, this is but beginning. (WALPURGA re-enters.) Kiss me, dear.

I am going now — alone — out — for a walk.

Say you will never wound me any more

With such cajolery as nurses use

To patients amorous of a crippled life.

Flatter the blind : I see.

WALPURGA.

Well, I was wrong.

In haste to soothe, I snatched at flickers merely.

Believe me, I will natter you no more.

ARMGART.

Bear witness, I am calm. I read my lot

As soberly as if it were a tale

Writ by a creeping feuilletonist and called

“The Woman’s Lot: a Tale of Everyday :”

A middling woman’s, to impress the world

With high superfluousness; her thoughts a crop

Of chick-weed errors or of pot-herb facts,

Smiled at like some child’s drawing on a slate.

“Genteel?” “Oh yes, gives lessons; not so good

As any man’s would be, but cheaper far.”

“Pretty?” “No; yet she makes a figure fit

For good society. Poor thing, she sews

Both late and early, turns and alters all

To suit the changing mode. Some widower

Might do well, marrying her; but in these days! . . .

Well, she can somewhat eke her narrow gains

By writing, just to furnish her with gloves

And droschkies in the rain. They print her things

Often for charity.” — Oh, a dog’s life!

A harnessed dog’s, that draws a little cart

Voted a nuisance! I am going now.

WALPURGA.

Not now, the door is locked.

ARMGART.

Give me the key!

WALPURGA.

Locked on the outside. Gretchen has the key:

She is gone on errands.

ARMGART.

What, you dare to keep me

Your prisoner?

WALPURGA.

And have I not been yours?

Your wish has been a bolt to keep me in.

Perhaps that meddling woman whom you paint

With far-off scorn . . .

ARMGART.

I paint what I must be!

What is my soul to me without the voice

That gave it freedom? — gave it one grand touch

And made it nobly human? — Prisoned now,

Prisoned in all the petty mimicries

Called woman’s knowledge, that will fit the world

As doll-clothes fit a man. I can do nought

Better than what a million women do —

Must drudge among the crowd and feel my life

Beating upon the world without response,

Beating with passion through an insect’s horn

That moves a millet-seed laboriously.

If I would do it!

WALPURGA (coldly).

And why should you not?

ARMGART (turning quickly).

Because Heaven made me royal — wrought me out

With subtle finish toward pre-eminence,

Made every channel of my soul converge

To one high function, and then flung me down,

That breaking I might turn to subtlest pain.

An inborn passion gives a rebel’s right:

I would rebel and die in twenty worlds

Sooner than bear the yoke of thwarted life,

Each keenest sense turned into keen distaste,

Hunger not satisfied but kept alive

Breathing in languor half a century.

All the world now is but a rack of threads

To twist and dwarf me into pettiness

And basely feigned content, the placid mask

Of woman’s misery

WALPURGA (indignantly).

Ay, such a mask

As the few born like you to easy joy,

Cradled in privilege, take for natural

On all the lowly faces that must look

Upward to you ! What revelation now

Shows you the mask or gives presentiment

Of sadness hidden? You who every day

These five years saw me limp to wait on you

And thought the order perfect which gave me,

The girl without pretension to be aught,

A splendid cousin for my happiness:

To watch the night through when her brain was fired

With too much gladness — listen, always listen

To what she felt, who having power had right

To feel exorbitantly, and submerge

The souls around her with the poured-out flood

Of what must be ere she were satisfied !

That was feigned patience, was it? Why not love,

Love nurtured even with that strength of self

Which found no room save in another’s life?

Oh, such as I know joy by negatives,

And all their deepest passion is a pang

Till they accept their pauper’s heritage,

And meekly live from out the general store

Of joy they were born stripped of. I accept —

Nay, now would sooner choose it than the wealth

Of natures you call royal, who can live

In mere mock knowledge of their fellows’ woe,

Thinking their smiles may heal it.

ARMGART (tremulously).

Nay, Walpurga,

I did not make a palace of my joy

To shut the world’s truth from me. All my good

Was that I touched the world and made a part

In the world’s dower of beauty, strength and bliss:

It was the glimpse of consciousness divine

Which pours out day, and sees the day is good.

Now I am fallen dark; I sit in gloom,

Remembering bitterly. Yet you speak truth;

I wearied you, it seems; took all your help

As cushioned nobles use a weary serf,

Not looking at his face.

WALPURGA.

Oh, I but stand

As a small symbol for the mighty sum

Of claims unpaid to needy myriads;

I think you never set your loss beside

That mighty deficit. Is your work gone

The prouder queenly work that paid itself

And yet was overpaid with men’s applause?

Are you no longer chartered, privileged,

But sunk to simple woman’s penury,

To ruthless Nature’s chary average —

Where is the rebel’s right for you alone?

Noble rebellion lifts a common load;

But what is he who flings his own load off

And leaves his fellows toiling? Rebel’s right?