The speaker in Anna Wickham’s “Imperatrix” acts like a commanding, almost royal figure demanding to be adored—the title means “empress.” She asks an old philosopher if she is “pleasant,” but she is less interested in an answer than in being the sole focus of his attention. His mind drifts to praise and abstract philosophy, so he fails her. She imagines a truer love as a quiet, glowing sphere containing only two lovers. Then she turns to a woodcutter who is so smitten he cannot speak. His silence feels like devotion, not cleverness. She teasingly repeats the question, then bids the philosopher farewell and says plainly, “I love a peasant.” The mood is playful, wilful, and a little cruel—favoring feeling over thinking.
Imperatrix — Summary
Am I pleasant? Tell me that, old Wise! Let me look into your eyes, To see if you can comprehend my beauty, That is a lover's duty. I look at you to see If you can think of anything but me. Ah, you remember praise and your philosophy! My love shall be a sphere of silence and of light, Where Love is all alone with love's delight. —
Here is a woodcutter who is so weak With love of me, he cannot speak. Tell me, dumb man, am I pleasant, am I pleasant? Farewell, philosopher! I love a peasant.