by Nancy Moser
And yet . . . I corresponded with many male scholars and literary figures. I had never felt the slightest trepidation writing to other authors, painters, or intellectuals. Why was I hesitating to send this simple response to Mr. Browning?
My gaze fell upon his portrait on the wall, then quickly sought the others I had placed there: Wordsworth, Carlyle, Martineau. And suddenly, I knew—I just knew—that the only portrait I had truly wished to display was Mr. Browning’s. Had I displayed the other portraits to disguise my true desire to have Robert’s delightful countenance on display?
Robert?
I shook my head against the impropriety, the audacity . . .
“Mr. Browning,” I said aloud, in an attempt to make amends.
“Excuse me, miss?”
Wilson was watering the ivy in the window box. I had forgotten she was there. I looked down at the letter in my hands. My own cursive reiterated the name I had just expressed: Mr. Browning.
Wilson nodded at the letter. “Do you wish for me to give that to Miss Henrietta to post?”
That was my usual way. Since my sister went out on errands daily, I always gave her my letters.
Wilson craned her neck to see the addressee. Upon seeing it, she glanced at the portrait on the wall. “Oh.”
Oh, what? I held the letter close to my breast and felt myself blush.
This was absurd. It was just a simple letter. To a colleague.
But then Wilson nodded in a knowing manner and whispered, “Don’t worry ’bout a thing, Miss Elizabeth.” She made a locking motion at her mouth, then held out her hand.
Surprised into action, I relinquished the letter into her charge.
She slipped it into the pocket of her dress and headed for the stairs. Then she stopped and returned to me. “Do you wants me to check the return mail every day to see if . . .” She nodded towards the portrait again.
I was suddenly appalled and nearly snatched the letter back. Intrigue was not for me. It was utterly against my character.
Perhaps seeing the panic in my face, Wilson said, “Never mind,” and hurried down the stairs.
But what she’d said lingered. Return post? It was my desire that Mr. Browning respond to my letter.
And then you will respond to him. And then he . . .
What was I doing? What had begun?
By the fitful beating of my heart I knew that something had been set in motion. Something out of the ordinary, something remarkable. Something exhilarating and . . . and . . .
Life changing.
I pressed my hands to my head, both encouraging its fervent shaking no-no-no and rebelling against its negativity.
Why couldn’t I change? Why couldn’t this one letter be the beginning of something . . . something . . .
New.
At the word’s arrival into my consciousness, I froze.
New? What was new? The word itself—though simple in design—was foreign to me, to my very thinking. I did not deal with anything new but wallowed in the tried-and-true, that which existed now and had always been. New involved change, and I did not change, my life did not change, my family did not change. We existed on the plane of what was, what is, and never ventured in thought or action into what was yet to be.
What was new?
The image of Wilson, bustling through the snowy streets of London, my letter to Robert Browning clutched in her mittened hand . . .
Run faster!
I gasped at the thought. What was happening to me? What was so different about this letter compared to all the hundreds I had written before?
I closed my eyes and let my mind try to encircle the emotions that seemed scattered like naughty sheep on a hillside. Deliberately I drew them close until there seemed some semblance of containment. Once I had them within my influence, once they were gathered, I looked into their faces and recognized a commonality in their gaze.
Expectation.
The very thought of it, the very novelty of the sensation . . .
Was the most thrilling experience I’d ever had.
I bustled about my room, touching this, adjusting that, picking up one book only to discard it for another. Poor Flush followed behind me like a desperate puppy wanting to be released from a maze.
Wilson came in the room with a stack of clean clothing to be put away. She placed the stack on the bureau, opened a drawer, but then stopped in her chore. “Pardon me for saying, but what’s wrong with you, Miss Elizabeth?”
I forced myself to stand in place. “Wrong? Nothing is wrong.”
Wilson showed her unbelief with a shake of her head. “For two days you’ve been out of bed more than in, have touched upon every single item in this room, have gone to the window, then the door more times than all counted in the time I have known you, and seem . . .” She studied me a moment. “Agitated.”
I could not deny any of her observations. But instead of agitation I defined my condition as excited and hopeful—far more gainful conditions.
Wilson placed the clothing in the bureau. “Would you like a dose of your elixir? You know how it quiets your mind and calms your pulse.”
I shook my head vehemently. Although the thought of taking my dear opium was tempting, I did not dare. For what would happen if a letter from Robert came while I was so eased in spirit? Whether my true condition was agitation or expectation I could not risk being less than fully . . . me.
She looked confused, but then, with a shutting of the drawer, I saw her eyes brighten with understanding. “You’re waiting, aren’t you? For a letter from him.”
Although I knew I should deny such a thing and chastise Wilson for being so familiar . . . I needed a confidante, a conspirator. If my current state was one I would repeat with every waiting, for every letter, then I could not uphold the ruse of an excuse. And so, I told the truth—or rather, acknowledged the truth she had suspected.
“Yes,” I said simply. “I await his reply.”
Her face beamed with utter joy, and I knew I had made the right decision to bring her into the secret. She took a step closer and lowered her voice. “Do you want me to go check to see if the post has arrived?”
Suddenly, I imagined Wilson entering the drawing room with great stealth and stealing from the table any letter from Robert. She would slip it into her pocket and race up the stairs on tiptoe.
It was not that I objected to her intent or even her methods, but I feared if she was caught in the act, she would be hard-pressed to explain herself. And when one of my family insisted she relinquish the letter she had taken, they would see the sender’s name and their suspicions would soar. As it was, Mr. Robert Browning was simply another colleague, a literary correspondent. To draw attention to his letters would be to risk . . .
Everything.
But what exactly was this everything at risk?
Shaken by my own question, I needed to be alone. “Don’t make a special trip to check the mail,” I told Wilson. I put a hand on her shoulder and led her to the door. “I do not wish to illicit suspicion with too much eagerness.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “I understand. I do. But I knows how to be discreet, Miss Elizabeth. You can count on me for that.”
“I will surely do so,” I said. “Now go about your business as if nothing is astir.”
She gave me a nod and a wink and left me alone—a much needed condition.
I shut the door behind her and let the question return to me. What exactly was this everything at risk? What did it matter if my family knew I was corresponding with Robert?
Because it’s different with him.
These five words caused me to lean my back against the door as if keeping the world away. At bay. Within these walls I would wait for him, and upon his entrance—through the lines of his letters—I could create a different world from any I had ever known.
Flush let out a bark, most likely reacting to my odd stance and to his sense of the foreign emotions that seeped from my every pore.
I went to
him, finding his neck with my fingers. “It’s fine, boy. All is fine. And good. I am fine.” And would be good when Robert’s letter arrived.
If it arrives.
I swung round towards the door, needing to run down the stairs myself to check the stack of mail. It had been two days since I had sent my response to him. When in receipt of his first letter, I had posted mine the next day. Perhaps he had been disgusted by my words, or bored enough to decide that further correspondence was unappealing.
My expectancy fell into despair and I returned to my bed. It welcomed me as an old friend, as if saying, “Foolish woman. I knew you’d return to me. Do not again be gone so long, for I alone care for you and offer true comfort.”
Oddly, instead of jumping onto the bed—as was his habit—Flush stood beside it and peered at me, his tail low, his eyes uncertain. In spite of his earlier confusion, did he prefer his recent mistress who moved about the room, who rendered expectation rather than surrender?
I too preferred that persona, and yet, as doubt sat upon my heart, I found no energy to choose it over the tedium of my standard.
Not until a letter came.
If a letter came.
I turned onto my side and burrowed my face into the pillow. It had to come. He had to answer. . . .
My mind swam with thoughts of Robert Browning. My heart beat a new rhythm of anticipation of his letter, and yet, as I suffered through the horrible interim between the uncertainty of now and the pleasure of then, I realized I knew ridiculously little about this man who spurred such newfound emotion.
What I knew of him I knew from his poetry—which, considering his talent, was plenty, and yet, not enough. I knew his mind and had seen glimpses into his heart, but I wanted to know of his life. Of the man, Robert Browning, not just the poet.
Towards that end, I concocted a plan. Earlier in the week, Mary Mitford had told me she was coming to visit on this very afternoon. Mary would know the details I longed to hear. But I could not seem too obvious. Even though Mary was my dearest friend, I was not ready to relinquish the privacy of my feelings to her—or anyone. That Wilson knew the base of them was enough. So far she had proven herself discreet, and she would have to continue to do so if she wished to retain her position.
Since when had discretion been a requirement for my employ?
Since now. Since Robert.
But back to my visit with Mary. How could I glean information without her suspecting the core of my interest?
I patted my answer: the copy of Robert’s Paracelsus in my lap. If I were reading Robert’s book when she arrived, then it would be natural for me to turn the discussion in his direction. Mary and I had long ago discussed it, and though she was not as resolute an admirer as I was—though sometimes I too wished his work were clearer, more concise—the discussion, in whatever form, would serve my purpose. Since the issue of passion was so on my mind, perhaps I could bring up the obvious passion within his work. He was such a master of . . . clenched longing. It verily burned though the metallic fissures of the language.
I looked at the clock. Three o’clock. Mary owned the virtue of promptness.
As if in response, I heard commotion from below. And feet upon the stairs.
I opened the book, found it upside down, rearranged it, and pretended to read. I could not actually accomplish such a feat, as my eyes were suddenly incapable of clear focus. My heart raced with an unfamiliar surge. This was not one of my attacks, this was different. This was . . . exhilarating.
Wilson accompanied Mary to my door, then left us.
My friend entered with a sweep of agitation. “The train was delayed, and cold, and crowded. Although I like living in Berkshire, the logistics of traveling to town can be trying.”
“I admire your bravery,” I said. “I would never dare ride in one of those locomotives.”
“You don’t ride in the locomotive, Ba, but in a car meant for humans. Though as it does not contain the proper facilities to . . . to make oneself fully comfortable, I do not advise it. But the speed . . . we travel twenty miles in but an hour.”
Mary removed her cloak and draped it over a chair near the fire.
Then she took her usual place in a chair near my bed. “Enough of that. I am here.” As I’d hoped, she lifted the book on my lap to see its cover. “Browning?”
“He is a genius.”
Mary shrugged. “Maybe a genius to some, but I find his work uneven. Although Paracelsus had some success, his subsequent Sordello was disastrous. The damage to his reputation still lingers five years later.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Did you ever hear what our dear Tennyson said about it?”
I knew, but had handily ostracized the mean-spoken words from my mind.
Mary took my silence as curiosity. “He said that the only lines in Sordello he understood were the first and last—and both of them lies.” Spurred by the gossip, she rose and went to the bookshelf where she found my copy. She opened it and read the first line, “ ‘Who will, may hear Sordello’s story told.’ ” She flipped to the end of the book. “ ‘Who would, has heard Sordello’s story told.’ ” She snapped the covers shut with a thwack. “ ‘Who will’ or ‘would’ indeed. It is unintelligible. Completely and absolutely.”
This was not going well. Although I had also seen the flaws of the obscure nature of Sordello, I did not begrudge an artist the courage of taking a risk. If only I would be so brave.
But now that the subject of Robert had been breached, I continued with my plan. “I’ve heard he lives with his parents?”
Mary nodded. “So he does. Thirty-two and still living at—” She must have remembered she was talking to a Barrett of similar condition because she stopped her disparagement. “I will say he is as devoted to his parents as you are to your father.”
I was glad to hear it. “And his siblings? Do they live at home too?”
“A sister. Just one. Sarianna.”
“What a beautiful name.”
“She is a beautiful girl. I often see them at parties. I am not certain she has traveled the continent, but her brother has enjoyed the privilege.”
I felt my usual twinge of envy. “To spend Christmas in Italy. What a stunning situation.”
Mary’s eyebrow rose. “He was in Italy for Christmas?”
Oh dear. I had said too much. I hurried to cover my knowledge. “I believe Cousin John told me as much.”
Mary showed no undue interest. “He is very learned in Greek. I’ve heard his parents’ library has hundreds of volumes and he has read them all.”
My heart flipped, for nothing could make him of more interest to me.
“His father, though not rich, has subsidized all his publications,” Mary said. “I do believe he is urging his son to achieve a parcel of his own dreams.”
“The father is a poet also?”
“I would guess. Though he is mainly a caricaturist of some talent.” Mary brushed at a bit of damp on the hem of her dress. “Actually his family and yours have some history in common.”
This sort of information was better than I had imagined. “Of what sort?”
“There is the West Indies connection. His father was in Jamaica but had no interest in the business there, nor its mode of application. He returned to England, much to his family’s dismay, and had to turn to clerking at a bank to provide for them.”
I nodded. “I do not begrudge him his decision, but rather, understand it. Although my family has had ties—still has ties—to that place, slavery is deplorable. By his action, the elder Mr. Browning showed courage and a noble character.” I wanted to turn the discussion back to his son. “I assume his son shares those attributes.”
“Other than Robert’s lack of a real profession, I can think of nothing definite against him,” she said.
“He does not have employment?” I found this to be a concern, though I was not certain why.
“Oh no. As far as I am aware he has never had real employment. His parents adore him and fully s
upport his poetry and plays, even when they would be wise to tell him to give it up and get a real profession.”
“He cannot give it up!”
Mary’s eyebrow again lifted upwards. “You show keen interest in—”
I waved a hand at her concern, hoping the gesture quelled her interest. “As a fellow poet I despair of anyone with literary aspirations and talent, as Mr. Browning most certain possesses, being forced into mundane employment rather than allowed the freedom of time and inspiration.”
“Men have to work, Ba. They have families to support.”
I was taken aback. “But you said Robert lived with his parents.”
She assessed me with a level gaze. “No, I believe you said that. And though it is true, I . . .” She sat on the edge of her chair. “You show more than the interest of a peer, Ba. Is there something you wish to tell me?”
I nearly looked towards the desk, where Robert’s letter was stored—but did not. I wished I were a more dramatic sort like Henrietta. My acting ability had never been fully tested, yet I had no choice but to test it now. “You know how I love gossip, and as much time as Cousin John spends here, he is a bad influence on me.”
Her gaze did not falter. “That is all, then?”
I attempted to laugh at the absurdity of her question. “I assure you I have never met Mr. Browning, nor do I have any intention—” With a start I realized this final statement was not exactly true. Yet, unable to linger in my realization, I changed direction. “I have never been romantically inclined, you know that, Mary. My passion is expressed through my work and within my own spirit.”
Mary looked to her lap and I could tell she was looking inwards. “You and I have talked about this before, Ba, about love, about our lot to never experience the love of a husband.”
“And we came to the determination that it was all right. We have both accepted it as God’s will. And as such, I cannot say I have regrets. I have been made this way and you your way, and our lives play out accordingly.”
She shook her head, but it was a movement of appreciation. “Your inner strength amid your physical weakness continues to amaze me.”
