Chapter 56 #2
“We begin to understand that the landscape he has conjured up so brilliantly is not merely a view to be admired. It is far more than that. It is nothing less than the means by which we may connect ourselves to a higher truth. If we will only allow ourselves to surrender to its beauty, it will transform us—for then we will leave behind ‘the weary weight of all this unintelligible world’—and become what we are meant to be—‘a living soul.’”
She was speaking faster, exuberant with the thrill of understanding.
“That is it, is it not? That is what Mr. Wordsworth means to show us. How through nature we become one with the world—how we become ‘a living soul’!”
“Yes, yes,” declared Mr. Hayward, as animated now as Mary. “He reveals to us how ‘we see into the life of things.’ You have it, Miss Bennet, you have it indeed!”
He sat back in his chair, much affected. “I’m sorry I interrupted you, but really, I could not resist.”
He stood up abruptly and went to the window, where he stood looking into the street. Mary sat quite still, hugely elated and a little shocked. Neither of them spoke until Mr. Hayward returned to the table and took his seat again.
“I told you a while ago, Miss Bennet, that you were full of surprises. But I did not expect you to astonish me again so quickly.”
She allowed herself to bask in his praise for a moment, aware of the admiration with which he regarded her; and this emboldened her to make a final disclosure.
“You asked me to tell you what I felt when I read the poem, sir. I hope I may confess the truth to you without seeming foolish—but, oh, Mr. Hayward—it made me long to become a living soul myself.”
She was not sure how he would respond to such an intimate declaration. She very much hoped he would not be playful or satiric, for she did not think she could bear that; but when he spoke, she saw with gratitude it was with all the seriousness she had hoped for.
“That is the power of poetry,” he said simply. “It allows us to imagine ourselves anew, if we will permit it to do so. It reveals to us the hidden wishes of our hearts.”
From the street, the sound of the cherry seller’s barrow could be heard once more as she pushed it over the cobbles, making her way back to Cheapside.
She did not call out this time; had she sold all her wares, wondered Mary, or was she simply too tired to cry them again?
It was a melancholy thought, and it darkened her mood.
“Yes, it shows us those things,” she replied. “But what if we cannot act upon them? What if it inspires in us longings we can never achieve?”
“I am not sure what you mean,” said Mr. Hayward.
“There is nothing I should like more than to experience what Mr. Wordsworth describes,” cried Mary. “But I cannot think it will ever happen for me. I have altogether the wrong sort of character for that.”
“Why should you think that?”
“Mr. Wordsworth says elsewhere that nothing of value is to be gained from books. For him, our affections are the only real guide worth following.”
She felt tears begin to well up in her eyes.
“And I’m not sure I have any. Or none strong enough for me to follow with confidence. Perhaps they are too weak—too frozen—to help me find my way.”
Mr. Hayward gazed at her with such concern that for a moment Mary thought he was about to take her hand. But if that was his intention, he mastered it, and instead pulled the jug of lemon water towards him and filled both their glasses.
“I fear you are creating a difficulty where none need exist,” he said, pushing the drink towards her. “Perhaps I may cite myself as proof of my argument?”
He crossed his arms, and looked at her across the table, both serious and fond at the same time.
“My passion for poetry is so strong that I know there are some—and I must include your aunt and uncle among them—who find it very amusing and just a little odd. But it has not diminished my appetite for other, very different authors. I do not think my love for Mr. Wordsworth requires me to give up my appreciation for—well, let us say my respect for Mrs. Macaulay. There is room for both in my life. The same is true for you, I believe.”
Mary closed Lyrical Ballads and placed it gently on the table.
“It seems to me,” he went on, “that, in the real world, it is impossible to be guided solely by either the impulses of feeling or by rational calculation. Neither is likely to make us happy. In my own view, we have need of them both. Wisdom, I suppose, lies in knowing when to call upon one and when on the other.”
“I think you will always find that easier to achieve than I do,” answered Mary. “You are accustomed to expressing your feelings. You have exercised them with poetry until they are robust and familiar to you. Mine, I often think, are feeble, frozen, and largely unknown to me.”
Finally Mr. Hayward smiled at her.
“Excuse me if I insist you are mistaken. No-one who has spoken with the passion you have shown so freely this afternoon can possibly be a stranger to strong emotions.”
Mary was suddenly mortified by the candour with which she had spoken.
“I have said far too much,” she cried. “I am so sorry—I was carried away. I cannot believe I have been so forward!”
“That is not how I regard it at all,” said Mr. Hayward, soothingly.
“I beg you not to think of it in that way. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself. Our conversation has been invigorating and very illuminating. I should very much hope to read other poems with you. May I be allowed to suggest a few more?”
His expression was so inviting and so sincere that her embarrassment evaporated, and she knew there was nothing she would enjoy more.
“Yes,” she replied simply. “I would like that very much.”
“I intend to do all I can to help you become a woman of feeling,” said Mr. Hayward lightly. “I shall unlock the sensibility buried beneath all that good sense. See if I do not.”
Mary blushed; but more from surprise than delicacy. She was shocked to realise that she was not at all offended, and that indeed, she rather hoped he would do so.
After he had gone, she could not settle. She felt excited, invigorated, alive. Not knowing what else to do with herself, she walked to the Gardiners’ piano, lifted the lid, and for the first time in a long while, began to play.
Upstairs in the nursery, Mrs. Gardiner heard the music as it echoed round the house, and was puzzled at first to think who could be playing.
It was carried off with so much spirit and vigour that she did not think it could be Mary at the keyboard.
When she realised it must be her, Mrs. Gardiner stood leaning on the door, wondering what had provoked such a change in attitude, as the children danced about behind her.