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Page 51
"William and John set off into Yorkshire after dinner at
half-past two o'clock, cold pork in their pockets. I left them
at the turning of the Low-Wood bay under the trees. My heart
was so full I could hardly speak to W., when I gave him a
farewell kiss. I sate a long time upon a stone at the margin
of the lake, and after a flood of tears my heart was easier.
The lake looked to me, I know not why, dull and melancholy,
and the weltering on the shore seemed a heavy sound.... I
resolved to write a journal of the time till W. and J. return,
and I set about keeping my resolve, because I will not quarrel
with myself, and because I shall give William pleasure by it
when he comes again...."
"Because I will not quarrel with myself!" She is full of such
illuminations. Here is another:
"Sunday, June 1st.--After tea went to Ambleside round the
lakes. A very fine warm evening. Upon the side of Loughrigg
_my heart dissolved in what I saw_."
Now here is her account of a country funeral which she reads into, or
out of, the countryside:
"Wednesday, 3rd Sept.-- ... a funeral at John Dawson's.... I
was affected to tears while we stood in the house, the coffin
lying before me. There were no near kindred, no children.
When we got out of the dark house the sun was shining, and
the prospect looked as divinely beautiful as I ever saw it.
It seemed more sacred than I had ever seen it, _and yet more
allied to human life_. I thought she was going to a quiet
spot, and I could not help weeping very much...."
The italics are mine. William was pleased to call her weeping "nervous
blubbering."
And then we come to 1802, the great last year of a twin life; the
last year of the five in which those two had lived as one soul and
one heart. They were at Dove Cottage, on something under �150 a year.
Poems were thronging thick about them; they were living intensely.
John was alive. Mary Hutchinson was at Sockburn. Coleridge was still
Coleridge, not the bemused and futile mystic he was to become. As for
Dorothy, she lives a thing enskied, floating from ecstasy to ecstasy.
It is the third of March, and William is to go to London. "Before we
had quite finished breakfast Calvert's man brought the horses for
Wm. We had a deal to do, pens to make, poems to be put in order for
writing, to settle for the press, pack up.... Since he left me at
half-past eleven (it is now two) I have been putting the drawers in
order, laid by his clothes, which he had thrown here and there and
everywhere, filed two months' newspapers, and got my dinner, two
boiled eggs and two apple tarts.... The robins are singing sweetly.
Now for my walk. I _will_ be busy. I _will_ look well, and be well
when he comes back to me. O the Darling! Here is one of his bitter
apples, I can hardly find it in my heart to throw it into the
fire.... I walked round the two lakes, crossed the stepping-stones at
Rydalefoot. Sate down where we always sit. I was full of thought of my
darling. Blessings on him." Where else in our literature will you find
mood so tender, so intimately, so delicately related?
A week later, and William returned. With him, it seems, her
descriptive powers. "Monday morning--a soft rain and mist. We walked
to Rydale for letters, The Vale looked very beautiful in excessive
simplicity, yet at the same time, uncommon obscurity. The church stood
alone, mountains behind. The meadows looked calm and rich, bordering
on the still lake. Nothing else to be seen but lake and island."
Exquisite landscape. For its like we must go to Japan. Here is
another. An interior. It is the 23rd of March, "about ten o'clock, a
quiet night. The fire flickers, and the watch ticks. I hear nothing
save the breathing of my beloved as he now and then pushes his book
forward, and turns over a leaf...." No more, but the peace of it is
profound, the art incomparable.
In April, between the 5th and 12th, William went into Yorkshire upon
an errand which she knew and dreaded. Her trouble makes the words
throb.
"Monday, 12th.... The ground covered with snow. Walked to T.
Wilkinson's and sent for letters. The woman brought me one
from William and Mary. It was a sharp windy night. Thomas
Wilkinson came with me to Barton and questioned me like a
catechiser all the way. Every question was like the snapping
of a little thread about my heart. I was so full of thought of
my half-read letter and other things. I was glad when he left
me. Then I had time to look at the moon while I was thinking
of my own thoughts. The moon travelled through the clouds,
tinging them yellow as she passed along, with two stars near
her, one larger than the other.... At this time William, as
I found the next day, was riding by himself between Middleham
and Barnard Castle."
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