|
A dying wife finds the bitterest thing in death
to be the certainty that her husband’s love for her, which, would life but
last, she could retain, will fade and wither when she is no longer present
to tend it:
“Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,
’Tis woman’s whole existence.”
The great pure love of a wife is a reign of love. Woman’s love is more
durable and purer than man’s, and few men are entirely worthy of being the
objects of that which they can so imperfectly understand. Mr. Nettleship,
commenting on this poem, very truly says, “The real love of the man is
never born until the love of the woman supplements it.” The wife of the
poem feels that there would be no difficulty in her case about being
faithful to the memory of her husband; but she foresees that his love will
not long survive the loss of her personal presence. This will be to
depreciate the value of his life to him; his love will come back to her
again at last, back to the heart’s place kept for him, but with a stain
upon it. The old love will be re-coined, re-issued from the mint, and
given to others to spend, alas! with some alloy as well as with a new
image and superscription. She foresees that he will dissipate his soul in
the love of other woman, he will excuse himself by the assurance that the
light loves will make no impression on the deep-set memory of the woman
who is immortally his bride; he will have a Titian’s Venus to desecrate
his wall rather than leave it bare and cold,—but the flesh-loves will not
impair the soul-love.
|