Dorothy Wordsworth: The Perfect Sister

Dorothy Wordsworth, though never a poet herself, had the distinction of being the indispensable sister for two men of genius. For a portrait of her —of what she was and of what she was not —we turn to George Mallaby, author of a volume on Wordsworth, who graduated from Merton College, Oxford, in 1923; served as Secretary of the Joint Planning and Intelligence Committee during the Second World War, and is today a key figure in Western Union and Assistant Secretary of the Ministry of Defense.  

We, who are alive, hardly know when we are happy. We are always looking ahead, thinking, or at least hoping, that "the best is yet to be." When we ponder and judge the lives of dead men, we say to ourselves, taking credit for the acuteness of our intellectual perception, "That was the climax of their happiness; in those years they lived to the full." There are no three persons, at least in the history of literature, about whom it is easier thus to express ourselves, than about Coleridge, Wordsworth, and his sister Dorothy. Even in their own lifetimes they knew that from 1797 to 1802 they shared a lustrum of sympathy and love and achievement which were proof against worldly accidents and tribulations. In that golden period these three persons were an undivided and indivisible trinity. When the triune spell was broken each of them failed —Coleridge fell into a self-deceiving idleness, morbid imaginings of jealousy and mistrust, an opiate confusion of mind and heart; Wordsworth, arming himself with the shield of a rather self-righteous duty, moved boldly but remorsefully away from "the vision splendid"; Dorothy, overburdened with household cares and perplexed with spiritual disappointments and dismay, surrendered to a senseless melancholy.

The bond between these three persons was spiritual —"three persons and one soul," Coleridge rightly called them. The bond was not, so far as all were concerned, intellectual: Miss Wordsworth was never that. She was sensitive, percipient, but in no sense a "bluestocking." Coleridge and Wordsworth were intellectual, Coleridge formidably so. Together they discussed and philosophized: when Dorothy was with them, they saw and felt. What she gave to her brother she gave to Coleridge also: —

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

When they disputed about Ben Jonson, as they did one evening in March, 1802, she was agitated and upset. It was she, more than her brother, who mistrusted "the meddling intellect." She read and appreciated literature, of course, but she had undergone no basic intellectual training. Her diaries and her letters are fresh, spontaneous, and natural, not at all elaborate, self-conscious, or stylized, not even carefully and deliberately composed. In matters of the mind she was untamed, undisciplined, choosing her own pasture, yielding herself, as she pleased, to chance impressions and random visitations of mental activity.

Nor, in my opinion, did physical attraction, as it is usually understood, play any part in the strong communion of these three. A true spiritual union is so rare that men have come to dispute its possible reality, and there have consequently been many attempts to explain away this exceptional trinity in terms of sex. Dorothy was in love with Coleridge, it is said; and though no one has yet dared to accuse Wordsworth of incest, it has been put forward in print as an explanation, requiring denial. Such stuff is shallow and vulgar.

So far as I can judge, Dorothy was not "in love," in the ordinary sense of the term, with anyone. She loved Wordsworth and Coleridge, it is true, loved them equally perhaps at one time, and certainly in the same way. She knew, by instinct and by a divine gift of sympathy, what they were striving for and she understood that, without her delicate perception, her sensitive and tender approach, they were too much given to "disputing," to argument and theory. She saw for herself the moods in which they were happiest and most creative and she knew that it was her presence which induced these moods. They told her so. How could she not love them? How could she not be happy? What other woman ever had two men of profoundly original genius so dependent upon her spiritual comfort? There was nothing physical about it. She was surely too busy, too preoccupied, too enchanted, to give much thought to that side of her life. She was creating poets and beyond that she had no desire.

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