by Nancy Moser
She entered my room. “Yes, Ba? What do you want? I have a guest.”
“Have a seat, please.”
“I don’t have time for a seat. As I said I have a—”
“Guest. So I heard. A man, here, when Papa is gone.”
Henrietta rushed to my side, her voice low. “Don’t tell him, Ba. Papa has met Surtees; he approves of him.”
“As a suitor?”
She pulled away. “Papa’s view on such things is ridiculous. How can he expect none of us to marry? It is all right for you, but for—” Her eyes flashed with recognition of her slight, but she quickly recovered. “I only mean that you have chosen not to pursue love. You are fulfilled within your work. But I have no such work. I only want a husband and children and a home of my own and—”
“You plan marriage, then?”
“Perhaps. One day.” She flounced down upon the chair. “There are the stirrings of love, and the natural progression is towards a union. But the only way to know for certain is to spend time together, to see if our attraction expands to a knowledge and respect. . . .”
I watched her countenance beam and found the change in her striking and disconcerting. Had she truly found love? Was this what love looked like to an observer? So obvious? So gleeful? So emphatic?
“I do see a marked change in you.”
She was at my side again. But this time she knelt down, pulling my hand to her chest. “Oh, Ba. I am changed. And when he puts his hands about my waist, and when he kisses—”
“He’s kissed you?”
She was across the room in a second. “Alfred is our chaperone. He accompanies me to chapel, to Regent’s Park, to skating.”
“Skating? It is spring. This has been going on all winter? Even after Papa got after you and yelled—”
“Mr. Cook is an expert skater.”
“That is not the issue.”
The petulant look—a common condition of my sister’s countenance—returned. “The issue is . . . we love each other, and true love like ours will not be denied.”
“Papa will deny it. Has denied it.”
“Then we will deny him.”
This time it was I who went to her side, my hands on hers, imploring. “You cannot do such a thing. The repercussions would be—”
“Would be what?”
I had rarely thought of it in such tangible terms. “He would disown you.”
“I would not need him. I would have Surtees, and we would have our own home, our own family, our own life.”
No, no, no, no. “You cannot leave our family.”
“Even the Bible says, ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.’ And though he may like to think otherwise, the Bible has authority over even Papa.”
Cousin John had quoted this verse. To me. I mentally completed the next verse . . . And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed. I could not repeat the verse to my sister. We Barretts did not speak of such things. But perhaps . . . was this latter part of the passage the key to Papa’s attitude against marriage?
I retreated to a practical issue. “What does Mr. Cook do? Can he support you?”
Henrietta straightened to her full height. “He is an officer in the army.”
Ah. Yes. I remembered now. Arabel had told me he was a lieutenant— a poor lieutenant, with a widowed mother to consider.
Their union would never work. How I wished I had never heard their laughter and summoned her.
“If only you would meet him,” she said.
“No!”
She was taken aback. “Whyever not? You have seemed more well of late. Perhaps if you came down for lunch one of these days and visited with—”
“I could never do such a thing, condone such a thing, not behind Papa’s back.”
“But surely in this, Ba, you could. You have no idea the depth of the feeling, the passion we feel for one another.”
I felt my cheeks grow red. No, I did not. I had long ago set aside such childish possibilities. I did not need nor desire passionate love. To commune with another on a higher level, as I communed with Robert . . .
Henrietta flipped her hands at me and walked out the door. “Oh, why do I bother? You, of all people, will never understand.”
This time she did not retract the slight.
Surprisingly, the statement stung, more than it should have. But amid the sting was something I was rare to feel.
Regret.
And dismay.
Where was the woman who had so boldly leaned out the window into the world? My reaction to Henrietta’s romance showed that old habits, old bastions of believing, were hard to set aside. I should have reveled in my sister’s happiness.
And yet . . . to encourage her would be to go against Papa’s dictum.
It did not matter whether I agreed with it or not, he was our father. He loved us. He wanted what was best for us. And if that meant never to marry, then—
A sudden catch in my chest hinted at an alien feeling of rebellion that started an argument within.
But why doesn’t Papa want us to marry? Where is the logic?
Papa knew best. He always had. What other father in the world would continue to care for all his children well into their adulthood? The financial sacrifices to keep us all together—
Hidden away.
We were not hidden. We could go out.
But do you?
I was not the issue. My siblings went out.
Only to Papa-approved venues.
Henrietta sneaked away. . . .
She’ll get caught, and then what?
I remembered when Papa had screamed so loudly at Henrietta and had slapped her, sending her to her knees. The memory still upset me. I did not wish for such a scene again.
For her sake? Or yours?
I noticed the novel I had been reading, staring at me from my bedside table. It was a book by Stendhal called Le Rouge et le Noir—The Red and the Black. It was a tragic tale set in France during trying political times. Since I had finished it, it had ridden me like an incubus. It was a book to be read at all risks. What interested me the most was how Stendhal—unlike any other novelist I had read—lingered in the minds and hearts of the characters, letting us know what they felt and thought. Mind and heart . . . it was a place where I was most at home. But beyond the style which so enraptured me was a story of people held captive by the rules of those in power, suffering the need to play a role in order to receive the support of those they loved.
Just like you are held captive. Just as you play a role and suffer.
“I do not suffer!”
There is hypocrisy in pretending to be virtuous.
I answered my own accusation. “I do not pretend—”
But Papa does.
Appalled by such disloyalty, I grabbed the book and marched it across the room to the farthest bookshelf, where I placed it on the bottom of a stack of five.
There.
To counter the thoughts ignited by the book—and my discourse with my sister—I chose another book off the shelf. Pilgrim’s Progress. One of Papa’s favourites. We had spent many hours discussing its virtues.
I retreated to the sofa, waited until Flush fit himself into his place by my side, and dove into the safety of its pages.
As I read the newspaper I became more and more enraged. I slapped a hand against the offensive words. “This is not fair. Moreover, it is unchristian.”
Sette looked up from his perusal of my bookshelves for something “diverting.” “Whatever are you talking about?”
Occy rolled a ball across the room, sending Flush after it. “The price of crinolines rising, Ba?”
I took offence. I cared little for fashion. That was Henrietta’s department. “I speak of the Corn Laws.”
“What are you talking about?” Occy asked.
Without warning, Papa entered the room. “What’s this I hear? My Ba mentioning Corn
Laws?”
Finally an ally. I held out the paper for his review. “The tariff on English corn must be repealed so the price can lower and poor families can afford bread.”
Sette yawned and arched his back. “As long as we can afford bread, I do not see that it matters.”
Papa glared at him. “Such elitist attitudes are not worthy of a Barrett,” he said. “And you only afford bread because I buy it for you.”
“Sorry, Papa.” Sette reddened and went back to his book search.
I was heartened that Papa supported my empathy for the poor. Mother had always encouraged charity work, and though I had been unable to physically go out among them as Arabel often did, I could offer moral support and . . .
Perhaps something more.
“What if I offered a poem in the opposition’s support?” I asked.
The room turned silent. Then Occy and Sette looked at each other and burst out laughing. “A woman’s verses? Think of the impertinence of it,” Occy said.
Sette let his voice rise an octave. “Oh, dearest corn, how wrongly you have been priced! Without repeal our bread cannot be sliced.”
I was horrified by their laughter and derision. “ ’Tis a serious subject. If the poor spend their meager wages on bread, then they have no money left for luxuries like clothing, and the demand for clothing falls. With too much clothing on the market, the price must surely fall in order to entice people to buy, and subsequently the wages of the clothing workers will also fall, creating more poor.”
Sette grabbed a book to his chest and gasped. “Oh my! What shall we do?”
“We should think of someone beyond ourselves,” I cried. “Life exists beyond these walls.”
“How would you know?” Occy said.
Once again, the room silenced. Then Occy ran to my side. “I’m sorry, Ba. I didn’t mean . . .”
Papa cleared his throat, then finally spoke. “Your compassion is admirable, Ba.”
I nodded victoriously at my brothers.
“But . . .” He stroked his chin, thinking. “I do not consider it wise for you to be included among the dissenters. It is not proper for a woman to be involved in political work.”
I did not know what to say. As a learned woman was I not permitted to have opinions? To share those opinions? To try to change the cruelties of the world for the better? I thought of an example of a time when I had helped through verse. “Two years ago I wrote ‘Cry of the Children’ about child labour conditions. And other writers added their pen to the horror, so much so that Parliament enacted a new law, and Fleet Prison was closed.”
Papa’s look was condescending. “I believe Mr. Dickens’ stories were the ones deemed instrumental in provoking the changes.”
He was right. I immediately regretted mentioning my paltry offering. But my pride proved stronger than my regret and I added, “In America, Edgar Allen Poe gave my poem on the children effusive praise. He even dedicated a book to me.”
Sette snickered. “From what I’ve read of Poe, I am not certain that was a compliment.”
Papa took a step towards the door and motioned to the boys that it was time to leave. “We are all proud of your poems, Ba, but keep your subjects set on dead Greeks and seraphims and leave the issues of society to men.”
I was deflated. It was as though my body had been pierced and all life-giving air had been released.
I heard my brothers scramble down the stairs while Papa paused one last moment for a final offering. “You must be careful of your reputation, Ba. Poe giving you a dedication, and then there was the time when your name was mentioned in a magazine near that of George Sand. Any connection with that abandoned woman can cause irretrievable harm.”
I was struck dumb. Although I did not agree with the way some other poets lived, or even some of their work, that did not mean we could not appreciate one another’s efforts.
“I assume this will be the end of your inclination towards involvement in the Corn Laws?” Papa said.
I nodded, but only because I wished for him to leave. When he had done so, when I was alone from the appalling masculine rampancy to which I had been afflicted . . .
How dare they demean me so? Demean the power of my work? They did not need to remind me that I was but a woman and had no power, no rights, no standing.
I should write it in spite of them . . . to spite them.
I knew I would do no such thing. I would not vex Papa for the world.
But as I heard the dulled sounds of my family going on with their day below, I felt a vacancy and silence which struck me as freshly as ever and with equal despair. The men of my family did not care to hear my views, indeed did not even believe I deserved any. My sisters may have been content to live within these feminine restrictions, but I was not. Not completely.
Wilson came to the door with a letter. “It’s from him,” she whispered.
Another man.
When I did not take the letter right away, she pulled it back. “Do you not wish to read it?”
I shook my hesitation away. At this moment Robert was the only man I wished to hear from. I took the letter and plunged into his words with hope of comfort and affirmation. I quickly received both: Pray tell me, too, of your present doings and projects, and never write yourself “grateful” to me, who am grateful, very grateful to you, for none of your words but I take in earnest.
I stopped reading and felt the sting of tears. This man—this one man among all men—cared what I did each day, what I thought, what I dreamed. This man would not laugh at me but with me, would not disparage but lift me up, would not ignore me but offer appreciation.
And I . . . I would return the favour.
I waited patiently as the doctor counted my pulse while looking at his pocket watch. When he was through, he dropped my wrist and shook his head. “It is too fast, Miss Barrett, far above your usual rate. Have you been exerting yourself?”
I was surprised to feel myself blush. I hastened to give him an answer that would satisfy. “I can assure you I have made no physical exertions. As is the rule, I am here all days, finding my worth in solitude and reading.”
He looked unconvinced. “Perhaps you have been writing? Perhaps that is what has taxed you so?”
Writing poetry? No. I could honestly assure him that the upheaval of my body was not caused by the strains of creation. But, of course, I had been writing . . . Had my correspondence with Robert been the cause of my racing heart?
I could not tell him that, and so I merely said, “I have not been working.”
“Then I do not know why you are feeling so poorly.” He looked down at me, stroking his whiskers. “Knowing your history, there must be something that is causing you agitation.” He opened his bag and removed two bottles of medicine.
Suddenly, the thought of his prescribing more than my usual draught of opium did not appeal. “I will be fine, Dr. Chambers.”
He gave me a second glance. “Fine is not a word I have heard from you.”
He was right. I generally welcomed doctor visits and encouraged additional medicines. In fact, it was I who usually had Papa request the doctor come. This was the first time in recent weeks that it had been Papa who made the call in spite of my protests. “You are not yourself, Ba. There is an agitation with you lately, a stirring that surely must be caused by a nerve disorder of some sort.”
He was wrong. The doctor was wrong. Although I had felt weakened, and had first blamed it upon the blustery winds, I had come to see in the past days that the wind that stirred my nerves into unrest was not external, nor something that was shared by anyone else. The winds of agitation blew from within and were flamed by a few words in Robert’s last letter to me: You think that I “unconsciously exaggerate what you are to me” . . .I never yet mistook my own feelings, one for another. Do you think I shall see you in two months, three months? I may travel perhaps. . . .
In the week since I had received the letter I had suffered every range of emotion. I was elated and
humbled by his feelings for me, astounded by his confidence in them, agitated by his mention of a meeting, and horrified at the thought of his traveling to some far-off land. Not that letters could not span the miles between here and there, but to have him close, but a short distance in New Cross . . .
The chance of it made the idea of a meeting more judicious. If I did not agree to meet him before he left for months and months—with all chance of meeting evaporating within the distance that separated us-could I live with myself?
And so, as usually happened when I worried, my body rebelled, weakened, and progressed into the chest congestion that was always waiting in the wings of my life for its chance to make an entrance.
But in order to even fathom the idea of a meeting, I had to be well. This time, of all times in my invalid life, I could not linger in the sickbed, content to be ill—and nearly encouraged to be so—because I had no better use of my time.
If Robert might leave . . .
The doctor left the draughts on the bedside and closed his doctor’s bag. “Are you still taking the opiate?”
“For sleep,” I said. “I do not seem able to be without it.”
“There is no need to try,” he said. “Use it as often as you like. And these too,” he went on, pointing at the new bottles to add to my collection. “Twice a day, one teaspoon each.”
I did not ask what the new elixirs would do for me. “To make me better” was the goal, and I could be assured by the depth of Dr. Chambers’ skill that they would not make me worse.
The doctor headed to the door. “I am glad your father called me. He said you were not in favour of a visit, but we all know that he and I have your best interests in mind.”
“I do know that,” I said. And I did not lie in my agreement. But what neither of them understood—what I was still trying to comprehend—was that I no longer wished to be ill. Although I did not know how to be well, I wished to try it. For only in wellness was there any future.
My future.
Never would I have thought I would entertain such a word. Robert was to blame, or to thank, depending on how that word played out for good or naught. But the very chance of it turning for the better . . .
