by Nancy Moser
Mary nodded, and I knew she understood.
“I realized then upon seeing him on his wife’s arm . . . for a man of his nature to be completely dependent . . . all my excuses not to meet him had been silly. And so, I arranged another meeting, and another, and another, and soon I was reading Greek to him. I became of use to him as he was to me, and . . .”
“You fell in love with him.”
I pinched a button on my bodice, unwilling to meet her eyes. “It was the happiest summer of my life.”
“But . . . but he was married.”
I looked up, needing her to see the sincerity of my expression. “Nothing untoward happened whatsoever. It was the first love of a young girl. He did not reciprocate.” I sighed, remembering another folly. “To my shame I even kept a diary that focused on my . . . intense feelings for him.”
“Did he know your feelings?”
“Not directly, though he had to have known. Sensed. Are not the senses of the blind more keenly set on instinct and subtleties the rest of us miss? And yet I never expressed my love to him. I relegated all my feelings to that awful diary.”
“Awful?”
“The emotions were unseemly and tortured. Obsessed. Eventually, they disgusted me. I felt so intensely, and dissected each word said between us, each meeting . . . I thought I was above such feminine frivolity, and finding I was not . . . I could make myself nearly hysterical trying to find justification to my feelings, and I was always questioning his. Did he really care for me?”
“Did he?”
“Not in the way of romance. As a student, as a comrade, as a protégé. He was a gentleman, and yet . . . sometimes he could be very cold.”
“Perhaps he sensed your feelings and his distance was his way of trying to quell them.”
I nodded. “I did not realize that then, but I do now. I forced him to be cold.”
“I am sorry you had to go through that.”
“I am not sorry. I was deluded. I acted childishly. I believed him to be the perfect friend.”
“No one is—”
“Not even him.” I took a deep breath to rid myself of the first part of the story and get to the end. “In truth he was rather self-centered, and . . . even indifferent. I have a tender nature; I am easily swayed by emotion.”
“You are a poet,” Mary said. “And a woman.”
“A wiser woman now.” I remembered her original question. “So no, there have been no offers. No one true love.”
“I am not a pretty woman, but you, Ba. Why did you not have suitors?”
“I was ill and . . . life was complicated.”
“Your father complicated things.”
“No, not just . . .” I could not finish it, for she knew the truth of it.
She nodded, reinforcing her statement. “For their differing reasons our fathers became the men in our lives, and insisted on being the only men.”
Up until this moment, our fathers, being who they were, had been a solidifying factor in our friendship. Yet previously we had spoken of them with full respect. I did not like the vein of our current conversation.
She put a hand on mine. “Admit it, Ba. If not for our fathers’ possessive natures, and perhaps our own loyal temperaments, you and I would be married with a passel of children between us.”
“But I was sick and—”
“Perhaps a loving husband would have made you well.”
I was stunned. “Surely you are not implying that the care I received from my father, from my family, was inadequate?”
“A father’s love is adequate, Ba. To get by. To sustain. But what of romance? Finding a soul mate? The one person who can be . . .” Mary dabbed the corner of the handkerchief to her eyes. “Have we missed much, Ba? Missed too much?”
I was uncomfortable with our discussion and rose to walk to the window. I scraped at the frost with a fingernail so I could see the chimneys and rooftops before me. I imagined the families in the buildings . . . husbands, wives, and children. “What good does it do to have regrets?” I asked myself as much as Mary.
“None,” she said plainly. She moved back upon the sofa, causing her legs to dangle from its edge. With her small size and soft features she looked like a child—a middle-aged child. “Though I do regret not having children, don’t you?”
To that I had a definite answer. “I do.” I patted the side of my skirt and Flush immediately came and licked my hand. “Children and animals are the soft spots of my heart.”
“You could still have children, Ba.”
I laughed. “I am thirty-six.” I turned to her and smiled. “I will let you go first.”
“At fifty-five . . . God would need to produce a mighty miracle.”
Even at thirty-six, a miracle would be necessary. Especially since there was no beau in my life, had never been a beau, and would never be a beau. This was my lot. When I first grew ill as a young woman, I never dreamed twenty years would pass me by.
Suddenly, Mary’s face crumpled, and she began to sob anew. “Oh dear Father . . . I will miss him so.”
Fathers. And daughters. The complexities of the connection were not easily understood—nor maneuvered.
Mary was allowed to stay with us, and after an evening spent reading to each other, was comfortably ensconced in a small bedroom. There had been many tears throughout the day and she was in much need of sleep.
I too could have used sleep, but I could not succumb—as yet. There was a nightly ritual which must—
I heard a tap upon my door. I looked up from my reading and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was two minutes until nine, which meant . . .
“Come in, Papa.”
The door opened and he entered, his Bible under his arm. I rose and moved to my place by the sofa. He took my hand and helped me to my knees before kneeling at my side. He groaned a bit at the effort, but I knew it would be the last complaint I would hear.
Without preamble he set the Bible on the cushion in front of us and opened it to his choice of passage for the evening. “I will read tonight from the Psalms. Chapter sixty-two, verses five through eight.” He cleared his throat. “ ‘My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation is from him. He only is my rock and my salvation: he is my defence; I shall not be moved. In God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God. Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us.’ ”
It was not like Papa to read verses of comfort from the Psalms, for his verse choices were prone to passages that offered moral lessons he wanted me to apply to my life. But today’s verses . . .
I risked a glance in his direction. Was he moved by Mary’s loss? Was he seeking comfort for his own mortality? Was he thinking of how I would feel when he passed on?
He did not acknowledge my gaze and reverently closed the book, placed one hand upon it, bowed his head, and began to pray aloud. I liked that he did not pray out of a book, but simply, in a flow of words from his heart.
I was mesmerized by his mellow baritone, the warmth of his body so close to mine, the strength of his presence. And once again I was moved by the fact that each evening he chose me—and me alone—as a partner in his prayers. What would I ever do without him?
I felt new tears sting as I remembered Mary’s loss. Of all his children, I loved Papa best. I alone heard the fountain within the rock and I alone struggled towards him through the stones of the rock.
And though it was not done I unclasped my hands and slipped one of them around Papa’s arm. His only acknowledgment was a slight pause between one word and the next. But he did not tell me to remove it.
And so . . . we prayed. And I added a silent prayer of my own, giving God thanks for the blessing of my father.
FIVE
I put the most recent copy of The Athenaeum down with disgust. “They are completely unfair, for he is a genius.”
“Who is a genius?” Papa asked. He had brought the periodical to me and
sat at the fire, reading the daily newspaper.
“Robert Browning,” I said. “He just opened a play, A Blot in the ‘Scutcheon.’ ”
Papa made a face. “I do not think the title appealing.”
“Appealing or no, I am certain it did not deserve the review it received.” I lifted the copy to read aloud. “ ‘If to pain and perplex were the end and aim of tragedy, Mr. Browning’s poetic melodrama would be worthy of admiration, for it is a very puzzling and unpleasant piece of business. The acts and feelings of the characters are abhorrent.’ ” I set the page upon my lap. “He does not deserve such a scathing assessment.”
“Perhaps he does. You have not seen the play.”
“I do not need to see it to know that its contents cannot be this detestable. Although I never saw him in my life, do not know him even by correspondence, the truth is—and the world should know the truth—it is easier to find a more faultless writer than a poet of equal genius.”
“But unfortunately genius does not always incur success.”
He spoke the truth. “So which do you suggest poets pursue, Papa? Faultless writing hoping for the good review, or genius?”
“Genius for genius’ sake may find only a small audience. It depends on the goal: reaching the masses or grasping genius for the sake of the challenge.” He lowered his paper. “Which do you aspire to, Ba?”
It was a good question. I had not had any book published since 1838, the year Bro and I moved to Torquay. . . . “I wish to have my work appreciated.”
“By whom? Other poets or the woman or man reading in their drawing room on a cold evening?”
“Both,” I said.
“ ’Tis not always possible,” Papa said.
Unfortunately, I knew that to also be true.
Cousin John rose, his head shaking in frustration. “But I do not wish to have one of your sisters at my dinner party. It is you who would benefit from being there with Wordsworth, you who would add to the discussion. He has asked to come visit you twice, you know. And Robert Browning read some of your work in The Athenaeum and also wanted to come and—”
I felt panic rise. “But—”
John held up a hand. “I told them it was not possible.” He looked at me over his glasses. “Although it should be.”
I knew him to be right. To have these literary notables wish to see me and yet be unable to summon the strength of body, and mind, and emotions . . . In many ways I might as well have been in a wilderness, or a hermitage, or a convent, or a prison, as in my room. Yet knowing the condition of my setting and being able to escape from it . . . I could do no more than acknowledge the one and grieve the impossibility of the other.
John sighed. “But back to the dinner party at hand. As dear as your sisters are, they do not possess the breadth of knowledge that entices dynamic conversation.”
I did not know what to say. I appreciated his compliment—without being unkind to Henrietta and Arabel. He was generous to continue his invitations. I was sorely tempted and, moreover, desired to go in so many ways. And yet . . . it was impossible. Although there was no physical lock keeping me at home, there was a lock that was just as formidable as iron, keeping me from venturing out. The lock was invisible, untouchable, and unexplainable to those who carried on normal lives beyond the walls of our home. They could not understand how I could ever be content. And so I had stopped trying to explain it. For I knew if I complained of my lot to Cousin John he would vehemently come to my defence and incite a royal ranting regarding the unfairness and unfathomable nature of my home imprisonment. He may have been Papa’s cousin, but that did not mean the two men agreed—about much. If I had given John leave, he would have fought for my freedom with slashing words and cutting arguments.
That I, a suffering damsel, did not wish to be saved by his gallant actions . . .
John paced back and forth, becoming agitated. I needed to calm him. “I assure you, this home that you take to be a gaol is a place teeming with arts and literature. I am not oblivious to the world.” I thought of an example and spotted the basket next to the sofa. “I read the latest magazines. I have read every issue of Punch since it came out two years ago.”
“I shall get you a commendation from the queen.”
He mocked me. But speaking of the queen . . . “In the six years she’s been on the throne, Her Majesty has had a tremendous effect on the arts. I approve of the step away from its past brazen nature, into art revealing a more respectable theme. Even I have been affected. Have you not noticed that my poems contain a more optimistic tone?”
“They are still consumed with death and dying.”
I raised a finger to make a point. “But within the death is a shred of hope, and the existence of good amid the evil. I have a new volume coming out at the beginning of next year. In it, you will see.”
He did not respond but plucked a dead leaf from a philodendron and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ve asked you to hear Mendelssohn play, and asked you to go to the theatre with me, Ba. You would so enjoy—”
“I do enjoy such things, cousin—in my own way. I am well informed as to the best plays in town, even though Papa forbids both theatre and opera from our experience. I know their story lines, their successes, and their failures. For instance, I know that William Charles Macready is making strides toward supporting new English drama. I heard he produced and starred in Robert Browning’s play Stafford, and Lord Bulwer-Lytton’s Lady of Lyons and Richelieu. And I know the difference in styles between the actors Kemble and Kean.” I thought of something else that might repress his worries. “What do you think of the new invention, the daguerreotype?”
“The . . . ?” He looked confused for but a moment, then nodded. “Nothing will ever take the place of a painted portrait.”
My brothers shared this view. “I agree that a painting has the advantage of color and style, but think of a man sitting down in the sun and having his facsimile appear as he is at that moment; a slice of time captured for all eternity.”
“They have to be kept under glass; they are very delicate.”
“Is not a painting delicate and hung in safekeeping on a wall?”
He put on his grumbled look. “ ’Tis not the same.”
“Exactly!” I said. “What also excites me is that the artist attempts with the visual what I attempt to do with words: stop time, create a moment, and celebrate the process.”
He studied me, and I could tell he was forming an opinion. “These daguerreotypes cannot be reproduced. How have you seen—?”
“That I have not seen does not mean I cannot appreciate.”
He nodded, but his lifted eyebrow revealed his belief that he had won the argument.
No. I would make him concede the point that I was attuned to the world, even here, separate from it. I thought of something else that might sway him. “Did you know that I correspond regularly with Benjamin Haydon?”
“The artist?”
I nodded. “Mary arranged for Arabel and Sette to visit his studio where they saw his portrait of Wordsworth. They were so delighted with it, and told Mr. Haydon how much I would enjoy seeing it, that he had it sent here in a cab, for my personal viewing.”
John’s eyebrows rose. “He sent the portrait here?”
Finally, I had impressed him. “We have been corresponding ever since.”
“You’ve met him, then?”
“No, no. He calls me his ‘invisible friend,’ but his letters are delightful. You know I prefer correspondence to actual encounter.” A tidbit came to mind that would entice him. “Did you know he once was smitten with Caroline Norton?” I did not delve deeper into the gossip I had heard from the artist but secretly enjoyed hearing anything about this poetic rival whose success surpassed my own.
To my disappointment he did not bite but moved to the window and pulled the sheer curtain aside. “There, Ba. Out there are people, teeming with life and emotions, just waiting for you to join them. You say Arabel and Sette went out, and I k
now Henrietta dines all round, and—”
“Without a chaperon,” I added.
John gasped dramatically, putting his hand to his chest, then staggering backwards against the wall. “Oh no! The hussy!”
I looked downward to hide my smile. “It is not proper.”
“Henrietta is not a child,” John said. “Or even a young woman.”
He was right. My sister was thirty—four. Yet there was still the question of the propriety of her actions. There were consequences to being out in London by herself. Dangers from without-and within. If Papa ever found out . . .
John took a seat and crossed his legs. “You need to follow the example of your siblings, Ba. I admire them for their independence. And Henry too.”
Showing any admiration regarding my foolhardy brother was unthinkable. “You condone my brother’s going against our father’s wishes, simply disappearing to Dover after he had been told not to go?”
“It was his twenty-fourth birthday, Ba. Doesn’t a young man have a right to celebrate with his friends?” John said.
“But Papa told him no; told him it was nonsense.”
“It was not nonsense to Henry.” John put his feet to the floor and leaned forwards. “If you are so against your siblings’ acts of scandalous freedom, why don’t you tattle on them?”
He had made a point I found hard to counter. “I just . . . I cannot do that.”
“Why not?” John asked. “If your father is justified regarding his restrictions, and you agree with him in all ways, then why don’t you act on his behalf and be warden to this Wimpole Street gaol?”
“This is not a gaol,” I said. “Our home is sacred, our home is a loving place, our home is run on—”
“Blind loyalty?”
I felt my heart palpitating yet I could not let Papa’s character be disparaged. “You know Papa allows us to go out, he allows friendships and amusements.”
“Allows. That is the key word which elicits deeper inquiry,” John said.
“Papa simply suggests it is not necessary to venture far beyond our own family for satisfaction. We are enough. If only my siblings would realize that it would be far better for all of us.” I did not tell him how pained I was when they caused Papa to chastise them. How I detested the sound of loud voices and conflict.