  Now to the letter, and my story of it. The mother, Claire, Claire Claremont, as you know— Pined for Allegra; would possess the child And take her from the convent—where? No doubt To Shelley's nest, where William Godwin's daughter Raised on free love, and Shelley preaching it, And Claire in whom 'tis bred, hold sway, who read, Talk, argue, dream of freedom, all the things Opposed to what is in the present order. You know the notes to "Queen Mab." Well, I say This suits me not. So Shelley and his wife, Mary, the planet of an hour, since quenched, Conceive I keep Allegra where she is From wounded pride, or pique. Hell fire! They think I'm hurt for thinking Claire and Shelley join Their lips in love, and masque my jealousy By just this pose of morals, make reprisal Under a lying flag, and keep Allegra To punish Claire and sate my jealousy By this hypocrisy—It makes me laugh. But to pursue. A maid who was discharged From Shelley's household told the credible tale That Claire was Shelley's mistress, and the Hoppners Heard and believed—why not? As she is fair, And Shelley wrote "Love is like understanding Which brighter grows gazing on many truths, Increases by division," that himself Could not accept the code, a man should choose One woman and leave all the rest, why not? As for myself, I have not preached this doctrine, Though living it as men do in the world.... Oh yes, I know this love called spiritual, Of which old maids, whose milk has gone to brain And curdled in the process, and who hate me For taking men and women as they are, Talk to create belief for self and others. Denial makes philosophies, religions. Indulgence leaves one sane, objectifies The eternal womanly, freeing brain of fumes, To work with master hands with love and life. The story rose, however. Then comes Shelley Bearing a letter from his wife, denying That Claire and Shelley loved, you understand— By the flesh. Sweet, was it not? NaÏve! This letter I should hand the Hoppners, who Believed the story, and who held a place Persuasive touching poor Allegra. Well, So Shelley comes and makes the point, the child Is in ill health, Claire, too, in a decline, And hands this letter to me for the Hoppners. And I've misplaced it. Frankly, from the first, Had no fixed purpose to deliver it. What principle makes me collaborator With such fantastic business? To resume: He acted like the boy he was. I smiled— Against the flaming rage that burned his face— My mocking smile, he thought, the Don Juan Upcurved my lips. I read his very thought Between words spoken; words that he suppressed: It was that I was glad that Claire was ill Because of that male mood when love of man Finds sustenance where suffering lays low The object of desire: If she suffers, The man subdues, devours her. She escapes If free of love. Oh yes, and this he thought: That I was glad she suffered, since my glory Had failed to hold her, failed to satisfy Her noble heart! God's wounds! Why Shelley thought She turned to him and with his spirit found A purity of peace and sweetest friendship, And faith that saves and serves, as men and women Are to each other souls to serve and save! Poor fool! I read it all, or pieced it out With words that I picked up from time to time.... There was this further thing: I am a man, So say they, who accepts the dying creed That woman's love is lawless and a toy When given if no priest has sanctified it— Not quite, perhaps. The point is further on. In any case 'tis this: that this belief, Mine or part mine, and coloring my acts, Shadowed no whit the brow of Lady Claire. And that I, greatest lover of my time, Had won this lady's body but to lose The lady's soul, a soul that slipped and fled Out of the hands that clasped her flesh, because She knew me through her gift, thought less of me, And no wise felt herself bound to my life Because she gave her body. Kept her mind, Soul, free, untouched by that gift, by the gift Was cognizant of what is false and poor— (I use some words I heard) in me. And thus I lost her soul, though earlier I had gained What seemed all to me, all I had the genius To comprehend in woman! Then comes Shelley And finds her soul, the genuine prize, and I Grow sullen with a consciousness of vision Inferior to his. All this they thought. Oh Jesus, what a lie! I have loved Nature, love her now: and woman Is Nature, and my love for nature means Inclusion of the sex. I have not soared To heights that sickened me and made me laugh At what I sought—or turned from it. No moons Behind the clouds; no terrors and no symbols, No Emilia Vivianni's have I had. I know, believe me, love for woman calls A man's soul up to heights too rare to live in. I have not risen, therefore, will not rise Where thinking stops, because the blood leaves brain Therefore have had no falls, and no recoils Chasing the Plato vision, the star, the wonder, The beauty and the terror, harmony Of nature's art; the passion that would make The loved one of the self-same womb with me, A sister, spouse or angel, dÆmon, pilot Of life and fate. How much of truth is here? Dreams seen most vividly by Petrarch, Dante, Who loved without achievement, balking nature, Till Passion, like an involute, pressed in Harder and harder on its starving leaves, Becomes a fragrance—sublimate of self Sucked out of sorrow's earth, at last becomes A meditative madness. All is written Fairly across my page. "She walks in beauty:" "When we two parted," "Could love like a river," "Bright be the place of thy soul." Lines, lines In "Harold," "Don Juan." Yes, I have loved, But saw how far love lures, how far to venture, Knowing what can and what cannot be made Of the mystery, the wonder, therefore never Have had to laugh at self; find Vivianni A housemaid shelling corn—not threading pearls. Or sit, with idiot eyes, my bones half broken, Icarus bumped amid a field of stones. I know the hour of farewell. I have said it When my heart trembled, stopped as when a horse Braces its terrored feet to keep from plunging Over the precipice. Farewell! Farewell! I know to say, and turn, and pass my way. Why! For that matter, even now behold! Do I feel less than Shelley would in this? I leave the Countess for the war in Greece. What's done is done. What's lived is lived. Come, Doctor, Let's practice with the pistols. Mother of God, What is this thing called Life? |
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