Marjorie Farrel by Miss Ware's Refusal Page B

notice, however, that Simon held Mr. Blake’s unbound work in his lap, as though he had been feeling it, in hopes the intricate designs would spring to life under his fingertips.
    “Good morning, your grace,” said Judith.
    “Good morning, Miss Ware. As you can see, I wish you to continue with Mr. Blake’s poems.”
    “Of course, your grace. Actually,” she said, her enthusiasm breaking through her shyness, “I have been looking forward to it all weekend. I am eager to find out how Blake treats experience.”
    Simon held the folio out toward Judith, and she took it from him carefully. She began, and since Simon made no comments, she assumed she was reading clearly, and not too fast or slow. She forgot herself as “reader” as she was pulled into the world of the poems, a world of paradox and comment upon earlier songs. Had she been reading to herself, she would have read something like “The Tyger” over and over, in her delight at the language and the imagery.
    When she got to the “Garden of Love” Simon shifted, turning in her direction and opening his eyes as though he wished to see her face and her reaction to this odd and, for a young woman, rather improper poem. After she had finished “London,” she looked up quickly and thought she saw a tear running down Simon’s cheek; she began the next poem as he surreptitiously wiped it away. Perhaps it was a reaction to his moment of vulnerability, but as she ended, he asked roughly, as though to see how shockable she was, “And what do you think of the poet now, Miss Ware? Are you shocked by his language? Did you blush at his mention of harlots?”
    “Not shocked, your grace. I am, after all, old enough to know that harlots exist. But very moved and puzzled.”
    “Puzzled?”
    “Well, at times I think I know what he is saying. And then I lose the meaning. He writes such simple lines that carry greater meaning than I can comprehend in one reading. And, I suspect, one would have to be Mr. Blake himself to understand all. He is surely an original, your grace. How did you discover him?”
    “In my youth, Miss Ware, when I was just down from university, I fancied myself rather a radical young nobleman—not, of course, recognizing the inherent contradiction and published some essays that gained me acceptance into radical circles. I frequented Joseph Johnson’s shop, and he introduced me to Mr. Blake’s writings, and eventually to Mr. Blake.”
    “You have actually met him? What is he like?”
    “Not at all the fiery young Adonis that he sounds. He lives by his engraving, of course, not by his poetry. Many think he is a bit mad. I think he is a genius, albeit an eccentric one. And what is your opinion, Miss Ware? You don’t seem as shocked as I would have expected a young woman to be.”
    “I must confess something, your grace. I agree with Mr. Blake about marriage.”
    “Do you truly see marriage as only a buying and a selling?” asked Simon.
    “Surely in your circle, your grace, there is much marketing of daughters?”
    “And sons, Miss Ware. Although I agree that women are in the most vulnerable position. But do you believe no one marries for love?”
    “I think some do, in all classes. But far too often marriage is an economic solution rather than a freely chosen relationship. And in most cases, the woman loses.”
    “Have you made up your mind never to compromise? Would you not prefer an establishment of your own? Forgive me,” Simon broke off, “I am becoming much too personal.”
    “You are forgiven, your grace. I was moved by these poems and could not have closed the book and discussed ideas only in the abstract.”
    “You are an unconventional young woman, Miss Ware. And, I suspect, not well-suited to being a governess. How on earth did you reconcile yourself to the demands of your position?”
    “Not very easily, and sometimes not very well. I am always struggling, only sometimes successfully, to be true to myself and at the same time