Margot Asquith, an Autobiography Part 26

He sent me many poems, but I think these two are the best. The first was written to me on my twenty-first birthday, before the Souls came into existence:

What is a single flower when the world is white with may?

What is a gift to one so rich, a smile to one so gay?

What is a thought to one so rich in the loving thoughts of men?

How should I hope because I sigh that you will sigh again?

Yet when you see my gift, you may (Ma bayadere aux yeux de jais) Think of me once to-day.

Think of me as you will, dear girl, if you will let me be Somewhere enshrined within the fane of your pure memory; Think of your poet as of one who only thinks of you, That you ARE all his thought, that he were happy if he knew-- You DID receive his gift, and say (Ma bayadere aux yeux de jais) "He thinks of me to-day."

And this is the second:

She drew me from my cosy seat, She drew me to her cruel feet, She whispered, "Call me Sally!"

I lived upon her smile, her sigh, Alas, you fool, I knew not I Was only her pis-aller.

The jade! she knew her business well, She made each hour a heaven or h.e.l.l, For she could coax and rally; She was SO loving, frank and kind, That no suspicion crost my mind That I was her pis-aller.

My brother says "I told you so!

Her conduct was not comme il faut, But strictly comme il fallait; She swore that she was fond and true; No doubt she was, poor girl, but you Were only her pis-aller."

He asked me what I would like him to give me for a birthday present, and I said:

"If you want to give me pleasure, take me down to your father's country house for a Sat.u.r.day to Monday."

This Lionel arranged; and he and I went down to Aldworth, Haslemere, together from London.

While we were talking in the train, a distinguished old lady got in. She wore an ample black satin skirt, small black satin slippers in goloshes, a sable tippet and a large, picturesque lace bonnet. She did not appear to be listening to our conversation, because she was reading with an air of concentration; but, on looking at her, I observed her eyes fixed upon me. I wore a scarlet cloak trimmed with c.o.c.k's feathers and a black, three- cornered hat. When we arrived at our station, the old lady tipped a porter to find out from my luggage who I was; and when she died --several years later--she left me in her will one of my most valuable jewels. This was Lady Margaret Beaumont; and I made both her acquaintance and friends.h.i.+p before her death.

Lady Tennyson was an invalid; and we were received on our arrival by the poet. Tennyson was a magnificent creature to look at. He had everything: height, figure, carriage, features and expression.

Added to this he had what George Meredith said of him to me, "the feminine hint to perfection." He greeted me by saying:

"Well, are you as clever and spurty as your sister Laura?"

I had never heard the word "spurty" before, nor indeed have I since. To answer this kind of frontal attack one has to be either saucy or servile; so I said nothing memorable. We sat down to tea and he asked me if I wanted him to dress for dinner, adding:

"Your sister said of me, you know, that I was both untidy and dirty."

To which I replied:

"Did you mind this?"

TENNYSON: "I wondered if it was true. Do you think I'm dirty?"

MARGOT: "You are very handsome."

TENNYSON: "I can see by that remark that you think I am. Very well then, I will dress for dinner. Have you read Jane Welsh Carlyle's letters?"

MARGOT: "Yes, I have, and I think them excellent. It seems a pity," I added, with the commonplace that is apt to overcome one in a first conversation with a man of eminence, "that they were ever married; with any one but each other, they might have been perfectly happy."

TENNYSON: "I totally disagree with you. By any other arrangement four people would have been unhappy instead of two."

After this I went up to my room. The hours kept at Aldworth were peculiar; we dined early and after dinner the poet went to bed. At ten o'clock he came downstairs and, if asked, would read his poetry to the company till past midnight.

I dressed for dinner with great care that first night and, placing myself next to him when he came down, I asked him to read out loud to me.

TENNYSON: "What do you want me to read?"

MARGOT: "Maud."

TENNYSON: "That was the poem I was cursed for writing! When it came out no word was bad enough for me! I was a blackguard, a ruffian and an atheist! You will live to have as great a contempt for literary critics and the public as I have, my child!"

While he was speaking, I found on the floor, among piles of books, a small copy of Maud, a s.h.i.+lling volume, bound in blue paper. I put it into his hands and, pulling the lamp nearer him, he began to read.

There is only one man--a poet also--who reads as my host did; and that is my beloved friend, Professor Gilbert Murray. When I first heard him at Oxford, I closed my eyes and felt as if the old poet were with me again.

Tennyson's reading had the lilt, the tenderness and the rhythm that makes music in the soul. It was neither singing, nor chanting, nor speaking, but a subtle mixture of the three; and the effect upon me was one of haunting harmonies that left me profoundly moved.

He began, "Birds in the high Hall-garden," and, skipping the next four sections, went on to, "I have led her home, my love, my only friend," and ended with:

There has fallen a splendid tear From the pa.s.sion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear, She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"

And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"

The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"

And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

When he had finished, he pulled me on to his knee and said:

"Many may have written as well as that, but nothing that ever sounded so well!"

I could not speak.

He then told us that he had had an unfortunate experience with a young lady to whom he was reading Maud.

"She was sitting on my knee," he said, "as you are doing now, and after reading,

Birds in the high Hall-garden When twilight was falling, Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, They were crying and calling,

I asked her what bird she thought I meant. She said, 'A nightingale.' This made me so angry that I nearly flung her to the ground: 'No, fool! ... Rook!' said I."

I got up, feeling rather sorry for the young lady, but was so afraid he was going to stop reading that I quickly opened The Princess and put it into his hands, and he went on.

I still possess the little Maud, bound in its blue paper cover, out of which he read to us, with my name written in it by Tennyson.

The morning after my arrival I was invited by our host to go for a walk with him, which flattered me very much; but after walking at a great pace over rough ground for two hours I regretted my vanity. Except my brother Glenconner I never met such an easy mover. The most characteristic feature left on my mind of that walk was Tennyson's appreciation of other poets.

Writing of poets, I come to George Wyndham. [Footnote: The late Right Hon. George Wyndham.] It would be superfluous to add anything to what has already been published of him, but he was among the best-looking and most lovable of my circle.