The Poets' Wives (8 page)

William has gone again, his chair that faces me empty once more. There is no knowing or predicting his coming or leaving. But the room itself always feels different, coloured and printed with his lingering presence, so sometimes I talk to him even in his absence. And I tell him that after all these years I think I too see visions and am visited by fleeting glimpses of Paradise and sometimes too hear the songs of angels. And then I journey back and question again why when I was with child no good angel came to bless her and wonder was it because of some sin of mine where I like the first Eve yielded to temptation and so was sent out from the Divine garden. But what sin it was I don’t know except perhaps that of binding myself too much to earthly things – the cooking of our meals, the making of our clothes, the constant shuffling of money and all the other services I tried to render – and in so doing neglected to lift my eyes often enough to the salvation of my soul. And I think much about our lost child and wonder if she now is cared for in Heaven and does she remember me as her mother as she plays in the fields and by the sweet streams of Paradise. The tormenting thought that still visits after all these years and which I try to vanish is of her lost, wandering in the forests of the night and calling out to me to find her and lead her home. Sometimes when I’m in the street or looking down at it from my window I see a solitary child and for a moment wonder if somehow it might be her and then it feels like a bitter hurt to think that there are those who are given a child and then show it such indifference and neglect.

And although his chair is empty I ask William if our child is safe and cared for by the angels and he tells me that he has seen her and she is well and waiting for me to come and then my heart almost overflows with joy. And I grow impatient for that time and find little other pleasure to embrace in these days that linger slow and unwanted.

Not all things can be blinked away and darker memories insist on their too being coloured. And before we could return to London from Felpham, Felpham that at the start had seemed to hold nothing but promise, a disaster befell us and threatened William’s freedom and our future life. Even to this day it remains a black stain lurking in the memory and which caused us also to be separated for the first time in our lives and was in truth I think the reason I fell so ill.

In our lives together there were many times when William’s head was filled with fire and fury at the injustices of this world and its treatment of him but never, never did he ever show anything to me except gentleness. The fire was always there, caged like that creature, but capable of breaking free when he witnessed the world’s cruelties. However on that August day when there were butterflies embroidering the edges of the cornfield and the sky was a deeper blue than the city had ever revealed nothing seemed able to disturb the calm of our existence.

It was a stranger’s voice complete with oaths and foulness of expression that first alerted us to the presence of someone in our garden. How strange and terrible it sounded remains with me still and how in that moment it felt as if the world that was ours was under assault. When we looked out there was a soldier – one of those from the Regiment of Dragoons – with his tunic unbuttoned and careless and it was soon apparent that he had drink taken. There were soldiers billeted in a nearby inn and disliked by all for their coarseness and intrusion into the quiet life of the village. When William went out and asked him to leave he was greeted by insults, disgusting oaths and an angry refusal. In that moment the fire in William took flame and grabbing the soldier, although the scoundrel was much bigger, pushed him out of the garden despite the blows. In the road more insults and threats were issued with a vile tongue and then boiling over William took him by the elbows and, turning him round so that the soldier’s back was to him and oblivious to his flailing arms that tried to rain down blows, forced him to the inn where others soon appeared and the soldier was persuaded to go in.

Afterwards in the cottage William trembled as if all the strength had suddenly gone out of him and at first claimed he didn’t know how he had managed to move such a stronger creature but then proclaimed it due to the power of the Holy Spirit. As I gave him drink my hand also shook so that I spilled a little on his sleeve. But even in what felt like victory the scoundrel that was Private John Scofield was plotting his revenge and three days later swore in front of a magistrate that William had used seditious language, attributing to him all kinds of treasonous utterances such as ‘Damn the King, damn all his subjects, damn his soldiers, they are all slaves,’ and if almost all of these accusations were false, in his risen fury I cannot deny that it’s possible Will did utter some imprudent sentiments in the face of the great provocation.

Before the trial takes place we return to London and take rooms in South Moulton Street. And there in the greatest trepidation William begins to brood that he is the victim of a conspiracy because of his association with free thinkers and his previous support for the revolution in France and because everywhere in England the country is preparing for war against Napoleon and fearful of an invasion. I think it is my anxiety and fear that they will send him to prison that makes me ill and I take to my bed and am very low. The days when he goes away alone to the trial in Chichester are the longest and slowest of my life and I am tormented by the dread that he will not return. I want to sleep to make the time pass but am afflicted by fears that seem to multiply and grow greater the more I try. Outside the tumult of the street grows ever louder as my heart turns ever more silent. It is a January day with the light coming into the room rising and falling as the sky clouds and then frees itself again. It grows colder too, but I am too ill to light the fire and so I shiver in the bed that feels like my future grave.

Terrible images form in my imagination springing from the pictures I have coloured. And in my delirium I see a great monster rising from the sea to ensnare William, fettered figures forlorn and crestfallen, and the great serpent coiling itself around the body of Eve. Nothing is coloured by joy or future hope but by the darkest hues of despair. Strange thoughts trouble me such as we have been cursed by evil for all our efforts to portray the light of Heaven and in my memory the procession of blackened chimney sweeps bursts anew full of clanging noise and the children’s faces are changed into those of devils and everyone who looks on them is afflicted with a curse that will only unfold itself at an appointed hour and in unexpected ways. I try to ward off these thoughts by turning to my Bible and I let it fall open so that the Spirit can guide me to what I must read and it falls at the tribulations of Job and so I know this must be a test of faith. But my faith feels as weak as my body and I am tormented by a new and terrible thought that fills me with shame to recall and which I now claim must be the product of my illness, the fever that burns my brain.

And it is whether Mr Blake has been deceived all his life and the voices he hears and the visions he sees come not from Heaven but from somewhere and something else. ‘Poor Blake’ is what they call him and it’s true that, despite what I told him, I’ve often heard it on their lips, seen the way they laugh behind his back and know they think he suffers from fits of madness. And if it’s true then perhaps I too have fallen under the spell of his madness so that I no longer know how to tell what is of Heaven and what of Hell. And are there two creatures living inside his brain? So sometimes it’s the lamb and I remind myself happily of all his gentle tenderness but at others it’s as if the tiger lurks there and his fury roars against everything the whole world holds as true and he’s like some caged creature desperate to break all the bars that limit him. I think of the tree full of angels he encountered as a child and wonder if what he saw was the fluttering of autumn leaves turned red and gold as the wind quivered them into life. And in his childhood home in Broad Street when God appeared at an upstairs window was this the Divine image or merely the reflection of a boy’s loneliness and desire for the holiness of a different life? These are shameful thoughts but they flit around my head like living creatures and I cannot beat them away.

Something brushes against the window and snow has started to fall and with it comes a sense of shame for the coldness of my heart, the treacherous doubts that swirl so deep about my thoughts. And suddenly I have a vision of him in the court and his voice disclaiming ‘It is false!’ with all his passion of truth at some lies told by his accusers and in that moment I know that my serpent doubts are the temptations of the Devil. And with that knowledge they clear and scatter for ever and in their leaving I feel the fever ebb out of my body and a new calmness flows over me and I read my Bible where Christ stills the storm that makes the disciples so fearful and His peace that passes understanding spreads slowly through my whole being.

I leave the bed and dress and am smitten by a desire to escape the confinement of our lodgings where these despicable thoughts first came and it is as if I must see the world anew and know it in all its truth to cast off the oppressing world of dreams. And as I think of William in the court facing more danger than he has ever known or deserved I want to walk those paths I have shared in his company and the snow will not prevent me. It has fallen thinly but enough to whiten the city and so with a shawl covering my head I venture into the streets where already the carts and carriages press their tracks. Carts carrying whitened coal trundle past, the horses’ heads never raised from their plodding step, and everything I look at seems held in a balance that might tip into either the holiness of justice or the despair of defeat. So here is a shivering woman wrapped in rags with a child held in her embrace begging charity from indifferent gentlemen of plenty whose hats are crowned in circles of white and here is a blind man with a whip who makes his dog dance to his whistle. But here too are mothers holding their child’s hand as they seek a passage across the busy street and I see the care they exercise over their loved ones but the greater heart of the city seems quickened only by the beat of money and everywhere it is commerce pursued with a passion that exceeds all else. Some of the children hold their hands to the sky to try and catch the delicate flakes that continue to fall but in every street and shop there is the ceaseless clamour for the making of money. And here is little more than a child barefooted in the snow who invites me to choose from her gimcrack array of beads and trinkets draping from her arm or another who offers me a choice of combs and scarves that look spun as thin as she. And in the busy street the city won’t let the snow hold it in white and its ceaseless torrent of feet tramp it into nothingness.

I look into the faces of those who hurry past me and know the truth that each bears the marks of weakness, marks of woe, and it frightens me that these are the people who now sit in judgement on a man who is not of this world but who walks in Heaven’s highways. Voices ring out across these thoughts calling attention to their wares and people try to press my hand with bills announcing all sorts of supposedly wondrous exhibitions and entertainments but no sooner are they handed to passers-by than they are thrown to the ground to be covered by the still-falling snow. A troop of soldiers march past with their red tunics snow-spotted and it reminds me of the scoundrel Scofield who spins his lies in the face of all decency and truth and I know that if I had to answer truly I could not swear loyalty to any King or priests in black gowns and think that in those like Tom Paine a greater truth is to be found. And I feel an anger that a court might deprive William of his liberty and if that be so then there is no justice or power that deserves to be protected from whatever force seeks to overthrow it. I want in that moment to wave a banner engraved with his words ‘the fire the fire is falling! Look up! Look up! O citizen of London enlarge thy countenance?. . .?Spurning the clouds written with curses, stamps the stony law to dust, loosing the eternal horses from the dens of night, crying Empire is no more! And now the lion and wolf shall cease.’

So let strength be given to the hand that ends the tyranny of lion and wolf. But I have already wandered too far and feel suddenly the foolishness of replacing my fever with this coldness. The snow has stopped but lies in runnels along the sills and roofs of buildings, momentarily changing them into strangers to their familiar selves, and gangs of boys give themselves to mischief by throwing snowballs recklessly at passing carriages, cheering wildly when they score a hit or provoke the curses of a driver and the threatening shake of his whip. I make my way home but conscious with every step that he won’t be there and am tortured to extremes by the thought that even at this moment he might be borne away in fetters to some place of imprisonment. I feel as if I might faint and frighten myself into wakefulness by thinking of falling into the snow, a cause of indifference to those passing by, and then be covered by new and heavier flurries until I am cold and stiff with death. So I hurry on shrugging off these forlorn imaginings until I find our lodgings and there I light as good a fire as provision will allow and wait in ceaseless prayer for his safe return.

He is here now sitting as always in his seat by the window and there is neither winter or snow in his countenance but only a bright and tender affection that has need of nothing that the world can offer. He comes to watch over me and help me with his presence and I am grateful for it and tell him that it makes our separation easier to bear. He asks about my days and how I keep my spirits up and he tells me that he knows no longer the shadow of night and there is no darkness moving on the face of the deep but he abides in a light that is never extinguished and that burns bright. And then he asks me to read to him and requests that it be from the Song of Solomon and I choose the chapter in which the beloved is gone in the early morning into the garden and picks the sweetest choicest flowers and he tells me that soon I too shall be plucked from the trials and tribulations of the flesh and taken home. And when I am impatient to know when this shall be he gently hushes me and tells me it is not for me to know the day or the hour but only to trust and hold myself in readiness.