Читать книгу Coleridge: Darker Reflections - Richard Holmes - Страница 45

By the time Coleridge reached Grasmere on 1 September 1808, much of his old physical energy was miraculously returning. He made one of his spectacular arrivals at 11.30 at night, waking the whole household, booming down the tall, newly painted corridors of Allan Bank, admiring and greeting. Wordsworth thought him “in tolerable health and better spirits than I have known him to possess for some time”.⁷ Southey, when he saw him, declared him offensively noisy and fat, “about half as big as the house”.⁸

But Coleridge’s feelings were delicate and silent. The sight of Asra filled him with secret, trembling delight. “For Love, passionate in its deepest tranquillity, Love unutterable fills my whole Spirit, so that every fibre of my Heart, nay, of my whole frame seems to tremble under its perpetual touch and sweet pressure, like the string of a Lute…O well may I be grateful – She loves me.”⁹

Domestic matters quickly engulfed him. Mary Wordsworth was about to give birth to her fourth child, rooms were still being decorated, De Quincey was expected, the Coleridge children were longing to see their father. Coleridge marched over Dunmail Raise with Wordsworth, and stayed a week with Mrs Coleridge, a visit that passed off with unexpected goodwill on all sides. Southey had now moved into Coleridge’s old rooms at the front of Greta Hall, and plans were agreed to send Hartley and Derwent to the local school at Ambleside. Coleridge felt the Keswick household was running smoothly in his absence, and was pleased and not a little astonished when his wife tranquilly gave permission for his daughter, little six-year-old Sara, to stay with him for a month at Allan Bank, and the boys to visit at weekends. A degree of reconciliation was in the autumn air.

“Be assured, my dear Sara!” Coleridge told his wife gently, “that your kind behaviour has made a deep impression on my mind – Would to God, it had been always so on both sides – but the Past is past – & my business now is to recover the Tone of my Constitution if possible & to get money for you and our Children.”¹⁰ Mrs Coleridge expressed her approval by sorting out his shirts and making “a pair or two of Drawers for the thighs and seat” of her husband, which had mysteriously expanded under his new health regime.¹¹

Allan Bank was large, with tall windows looking north, and east over Grasmere lake, and the towering shape of Silver Howe Fell enclosing it to the south. It had none of the charm of Dove Cottage (which Dorothy always regretted), or the comforts of Greta Hall. Bleak and exposed, the down-winds from the fell filled it with draughts in summer, and chimney-smoke in the winter, so that food and books were often dusted with soot. Coleridge had a large study and separate bedroom on the first floor, but there was little sense of peace or space. Wordsworth was determined to be self-sufficient, and the three women were endlessly busied with cooking, laundry, vegetable-gardening, baking, and looking after the children – as well as a cow and two piglets.¹² Visitors were frequent, including Hartley and Derwent, De Quincey and his friend John Wilson, and Dorothy records that there were often more than a dozen round the table at meals.

Little Sara’s visit to Allan Bank with her father remained one of her earliest memories: a mixture of awkwardness, enchantment and homesickness. She felt overshadowed by the Wordsworth children, especially the angelic Dora, her blonde locks dressed with paper curlers, and all of whom seemed able to play with Coleridge much more freely than herself, making “enough racket for twenty”. Though she slept in her father’s bedroom, she felt lonely and inhibited at first. “My father reproached me, and contrasted my coldness with the childish caresses of the little Wordsworths. I slunk away, and hid myself.”¹³

But Coleridge was delighted with his daughter, and understood her fears as he had understood Hartley’s. He told her stories, kept a candle burning in the bedroom, took her for walks to make her “rosier and hardier”, and encouraged her childish romance with little John Wordsworth. He also realized that she was extremely bright and bookish, in a quieter less fantastical way than Hartley, and had inherited the extraordinary Coleridge eyes. “Verily, Sara is a deal cleverer than I supposed. She is indeed a very sweet unblameable Darling. And what elegance of Form and Motion – her dear Eyes too! as I was telling a most wild Story to her & John, her large eyes grew almost as large again with wonderment.”¹⁴

Sara remembered those stories ever after. “I slept with him, and he would tell me fairy stories when he came to bed at twelve and one o’clock. I remember his telling me a wild tale, too, in his study, and my trying to repeat it to the maids afterwards.”

Sara was also aware, in the acute way of a child, of the mysterious bond between her father and Asra. But, like Hartley, she felt uneasy with it and could not understand the attraction. She saw Asra through her mother’s disapproving eyes. “My father used to talk to me with much admiration and affection of Sara Hutchinson…She had fine, long, light brown hair, I think her only beauty, except a fair skin, for her features were plain and contracted, her figure dumpy, and devoid of grace and dignity. She was a plump woman, of little more than five feet. I remember my father talking to me admiringly of her long light locks, and saying how mildly she bore it when the baby pulled them hard.”¹⁵

This tiny observation of Asra’s willingness to suffer, perhaps out of a frustrated maternal instinct, and Coleridge’s curious, almost erotic fascination with it, shows little Sara’s perception. She also saw, at least in retrospect, that Coleridge wanted to beguile her affections away from Greta Hall. “I think my dear father was anxious that I should learn to love him and the Wordsworths and their children, and not cling so exclusively to my mother, and all around me at home.” Like many children from a divided family she was to feel torn and guilty about this long into adulthood.

Coleridge himself was both excited and troubled by his new domestic arrangements. His outward family life, apparently now stabilized between Allan Bank and Greta Hall, brought a new sense of purpose which he would pour into The Friend. But his proximity to Asra, living and sleeping in the same house, always on the other side of a door or a wall, and always under Wordsworth’s commanding eye, haunted him as it had done at Coleorton. He entered a tense, anxious little love-lyric in his Notebooks:

Two wedded hearts, if e’er were such,

Imprisoned in adjoining cells,

Across whose thin partition-wall

The Builder left one narrow rent,

And where, most content in discontent,

A joy with itself at strife –

Die into an intenser Life.¹⁶

Wordsworth was obviously keen to avoid any such “intenser life”, but chose an unexpected way to defuse the situation. In mid-September he took Coleridge and Asra on a week’s walking tour along the river Duddon, just the three of them together, striding over the fells and staying at local inns. At Seathwaite Vale, Coleridge noted with a shiver of delight: “W. Wordsworth, Sara, & I – the Cottage, Hollinghouse!! all, all…”¹⁷ But there is no further record of what was discussed, or what decided. Amid the landscape observations – the ferns changing from green to gold, “harbinger of our autumnal splendours”, and the dark valley mists below Capel Crag (‘Sara’s most appropriate phrase at the Head of Wastdale: how DEEP it is!”) – there was a strange silence on all matters of the heart. But there were stray glimpses, which suggest that once again Coleridge was being forced to renounce all expression of his love.

There was “something incomprehensible in Sara’s feelings concerning [Wordsworth]”. If she still felt “a real preference of Love” for himself, how could he explain “her evidently greater pleasure in gazing on” his friend?¹⁸ Why was she now so uneasy in his physical company? “You never sat with me or near me ten minutes in your life without showing a restlessness, & a thought of going, etc., for at least five minutes out of the ten.”¹⁹ Why did she dart away from any expression of warmth or feeling: “she shines and is cold, as the tropic Firefly”?

The terrible thought again came to Coleridge that Asra’s love might have become mere loyalty to him, out of pity for his sufferings. “But how much of her Love is Pity? Humane dread of inflicting Anguish? Dignified sense of Consistency & Faith?”²⁰ Yet he still saw her beauty burning in everything around him, even an autumn rose on the table at the inn. “How have I looked at a full-blown Rose, bending or drooping from its own weight over the edge of the Glass or Flower Pot, and seeming to spy Sara and at last even a countenance.”²¹

Back at Allan Bank in October, Asra took to covering the long hair that Coleridge so admired with a cotton mob-cap. It took away the youthful softness of her face, and emphasized her bony nose and prominent chin. Coleridge was shocked by the transformation: “astonishing effect of an unbecoming Cap on Sara. It in the strictest sense of the word frightened me…producing a painful startle whenever she turned her face suddenly round on me…” He urged her not to “play these tricks with her angel countenance”, but she refused to take it off. It was a clear assertion of her new domestic role and independence.

Coleridge wrote sorrowfully of the “heavenly Vision of her Face” which had saved him from Cecilia Bertozzi in Syracuse. Now he felt Asra was deliberately breaking the sacred chain of his memories and associations. It was “morally culpable”, and cruel; but might one day make the subject for a poem. “What if on my Death-bed her Face, which had hovered before me as my soothing and beckoning Seraph, should all at once flash into that new face…?” Over twenty years later the “distressing”, dreamlike image of love’s metamorphosis did indeed appear in his poem, “Phantom or Fact”.²²

Yet it seems likely from Asra’s behaviour that the proximity that was so tantalizing to him was for her largely oppressive. Asra sought distance and homely practicality in their relations, reflecting the Wordsworths’ own fears of Coleridge’s emotional claims on the entire household. She would support him with his children, with his struggles against opium, above all with his work on The Friend. But she no longer wanted to be the object of his dreams, his love, his tortuous secret passion. If this was indeed her attitude (and if the heart can ever be quite steady in such circumstances), it was a not unreasonable or unkindly one. But of course it would have been a profound rejection of the very impulse that had brought Coleridge north again in the first place.