How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  “Do you need more paste, Miss Elizabeth?” Wilson asked me.

  For the briefest moment I mistook her word paste for praise. I did not need more of either. “No, thank you. I am nearly through with my scrapbook.” I looked to Cousin John, who had brought me the various periodicals to peruse, then cut, then paste into my scrapbook of book reviews. “Yes?”

  He lifted the much shortened pile in his lap. “Yes.”

  I held out my hand for the next on the pile. John opened a copy of The Athenaeum. “Here is a good one. The tough-minded H. R. Chorley says, ‘Were the blemishes of her style tenfold more numerous than they are, we should still revere this poetess as one of the noblest of her sex.’ ”

  I put a dramatic hand to my chest. “Blemishes? He finds blemishes?”

  “There are a few, I would think,” John said.

  “More than a few,” I admitted. “I wrote too much of the book in a rush when the publisher wanted the two volumes to be of equal length. In my quest, I resurrected Lady Geraldine’s Courtship from its standing as a work in progress and bounded off nineteen pages in one day.”

  John handed me the Chorley review and I began to cut around it. He moved on to the next publication. “I do like this one from the Metropolitan Magazine,” he said. He adjusted his spectacles to read. “ ‘Miss Elizabeth Barrett seems to us one bright particular star, shining from a firmament of her own. She deserves to be esteemed and admired at once and throughout future generations.’ ”

  I didn’t know what to say to such acclaim. Although it pleased me (more than it should have) it also left me embarrassed, for although I believed my Poems to be good work, it was not this good. Speaking of . . . I thought of a magazine that habitually took pleasure in abusing my work. “What of The British Quarterly Review?”

  John placed his hands upon the stack. “Are you certain you wish to hear it?”

  Ah. So their abuse continued. “Fair is fair,” I said. “I cannot accept the good without acknowledging the bad.”

  He pulled the bottom periodical from his stack—proof he had been protecting me. He cleared his throat and read. “ ‘We object to Miss Barrett’s fantastic images and phrases and find much of what she has written unintelligible. Whether this stems from her lack of knowledge on the subject in question or to her thoughts being too sublime and grand to be spoken out in clear, connected phrase we do not know.’ ” He looked up to gauge my reaction. “You are not weeping. . . .”

  “One does not weep over the truth. I do write about things unknown to me in real life.” I spread my hands to encompass the room. “This room is my life. Only my work takes me beyond these walls. That a reader occasionally finds error when comparing my prose to reality is acceptable, and nearly expected.” I tapped a finger to my head and then my heart. “I write from a world that exists in places that are indeed grand and sublime.”

  John applauded. “Bravo, Ba. That is the right attitude.”

  I did not deserve his applause, for the attitude was what it was, and was not contrived for his benefit. But—to my shame—I returned the discussion of reviews to the positive. I turned back a few pages in my scrapbook, then put my hand in the page to mark it, deciding to summarize instead of quote. “I did receive a letter from the painter Dante Rossetti that said he and his brother reveled with profuse delight in my work. He wrote that they have read many of the poems half a hundred times over and could recite them from memory.”

  “Perhaps you should instruct them to give public recitals. Your sales would surely benefit.” He pointed to the sheaf of paper on my desk. “There. Write them a note now.”

  I batted his finger away. “I will do no such thing.” I nodded at the reviews still left in his lap. “Is there one from The Westminster Review in your stack?” I asked the question with trepidation, for it was one of the most influential quarterlies.

  “There could be,” he said.

  His lack of effusion spoke volumes about their response. “Out with it,” I said.

  He pulled it out and opened its pages. “ ‘The work in Poems lacks humour and wants for the ease of colloquial expression, which is surely caused by . . .’ ” He paused to look at me. “Are you certain you wish for me to continue?”

  “Of course,” I said, although I was not certain at all.

  “ ‘. . . which is surely caused by Miss Barrett’s prolonged isolation. She has lived too much in the world of books, which in turn, has become a handicap to her art.’ ”

  Although this review was similar to the other for which I had found no fault, there was something about this one’s presentation that made my heart race with anger. “I . . . I . . .”

  “You did say as much yourself,” John said.

  He was correct, and yet the manner in which the reviewer had identified the truth reminded me what the public thought of my personal life. I was the odd recluse, a scholarly priestess held prisoner in her castle turret, handicapped by her situation. I was a woman to be pitied.

  “I have upset you,” John said.

  It was not his fault, and my reaction was beyond that which was required, or correct. “If they wish to know the truth, cousin, I would as a poet exchange some of this lumbering, ponderous, helpless knowledge of books for some experience of life and man.”

  He perked to higher attention. “You have been feeling better these past months. Perhaps it is time to venture out and—”

  I shook my head adamantly, my fear of life and man out there, away from here, overwhelming even my deepest desire to experience it.

  Wilson saved the moment by bringing me the post. The letter on top distracted my inner keening. “Oh my,” I said. “It is from Mr. Robert Browning.”

  John slapped a hand upon his thigh. “Well, well. Has the chap finally gained the nerve to contact you?”

  “Have you been goading him to—”

  “Me? Never.” I knew by his grin such an exchange had taken place. “Open it, Ba. See what the man has to say.”

  I was not sure I wished to read the letter with him present, but since my cousin was the connection between Mr. Browning and me, I submitted. I read the first line in silence: I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett. . . .

  “What does he say?”

  I was not exactly certain. I was not used to effusive praise that went beyond polite convention. In fact, it frightened me with its implied passion while it enticed me to read more.

  But I could not read on with an audience. “It appears he has read my book and enjoyed it.” I felt my face flush. “Quite a lot.”

  “Excellent! I sent a copy round to his sister, Sarianna, because I knew him to be in Italy. He must be back. She must have given it to him.”

  “You sent a copy . . . ?”

  “You quoted him within one of your stanzas in Lady Geraldine, did you not? What was the line? Something about a pomegranate?”

  I knew the line by heart. It was when Geraldine listed the books she delighted having read to her. “ ‘Or at times a modern volume, Wordsworth’s solemn-thoughted idyl, Howitt’s ballad-verse, or Tennyson’s enchanted reverie, or from Browning some “Pomegranate,” which, if cut deep down the middle, shows a heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity.’ ”

  “Obviously you have cut dear Robert deep down the middle.”

  My blush deepened and I tried to hide it by lowering my head and letting my ringlets act as cover.

  “What else does he say?”

  There was much more to the letter which was written in a flowing cursive I found most amiable to the eye. I often shared letters with my cousin. Yet there was something about this letter . . . I could not read it in John’s company. With an attempt at apathy I set the letter aside, putting it within a drawer of my desk. “I will read it later.”

  Suddenly, John rose. “I will allow later to be immediate.” He came to my side and kissed my cheek. “Enjoy his words, dear Ba,” he said, and shut the door with a gentle click.

  The room was mine o
nce more and lay completely still as if awaiting my next move. Even Flush lay unmoving at my feet. The moment lingered, hesitant to move on to the next. More surprisingly, I found that I too sat paused, caught in time, unsure what should transpire, what could transpire, and moreover, what would transpire next.

  I was hesitant to allow my eyes to move too far, and felt the constraint of sight marked only by the placement of my neck and head. My eyes could move left, then right, up, then down, but were limited by this odd need to remain without motion, to remain here, right now. Still.

  Expectant?

  My brain did not abide by my body’s constraint. New thoughts were swift lightning, streaking through my mind’s sky with a fierce power that defied previous experience. I could not capture any thought nor predict the next, any more than I could capture or predict lightning in a stormy sky. Although all this happened within my own consciousness, it was as though I were merely an onlooker, once removed, with no say, no power, no control.

  I shivered—from excitement or trepidation?

  The physical movement, small though it was, was enough for a cognizant thought to gain entry. Yet the intrusive thought seemed a statement made by a third party rather than one that originated within my own realm.

  All is different now, it said.

  The pragmatism of my nature intruded to ask In what way?

  But instead of giving me an answer from within, I found my hand breaking free of the frozen moment and moving of its own accord to the drawer in my desk where I had placed . . .

  My fingers touched the letter, and oddly, I had the distinct feeling that the letter touched my fingers in return—the softest graze, a kiss, barely there, and too soon gone.

  Ridiculous, I thought. It was but a letter. My life was replete with letters. Why did this one seem different?

  With a shake of my head I forced logic into the moment—and immediately regretted its entry. I mentally recanted, longing to regain that sweet breath of reverie that had been held with such exquisite delicacy.

  But it was gone and I could do nothing but mourn its passing. Would I ever experience such a moment again?

  The clock on the mantel relentlessly announced the passing of more moments, leading to more, and more.

  Whatever slice of the sublime had occurred was now gone from this reality. But it would never be fully gone from my memory. Although I would be hard-pressed to ably recount it, I knew I would never truly forget the awe of its pleasure. It was as though I had been allowed to glimpse the face of the Almighty. I knew someday I would feel that way again. Even now, I longed for it and anticipated it as I had never awaited anything before.

  I looked at the letter from Robert Browning. It looked no different than other letters I received from other correspondents, from other . . . men. Although its opening line had filled my need for praise, I had received others just as complimentary, and from poets I admired with equal intensity as I admired Mr. Browning.

  But something was indeed different. There was only one way to determine what that was. . . .

  This is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write, whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius and there a graceful and natural end of the thing: since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration—perhaps even, as a loyal fellow-craftsman should try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of hereafter! But nothing comes of it all, so into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living poetry of yours.

  I stopped and let his words linger like a comforting shawl against the cold of January. That he had attempted to give criticism—which would have been welcome indeed from a poet such as he—but had been moved beyond a cutting apart to a welcoming in . . . There was no greater compliment than to know that my work had touched someone, had accessed an inner place, and had sparked emotion.

  Wanting, needing more, I read on:

  I can give a reason for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought—but in this addressing myself to you, your own self, and for the first time, my feeling rises altogether. I do, as I say, love these books with all my heart—and I love you too. Do you know I was once not very far from seeing—really seeing you? Mr.Kenyon said to me one morning, ‘Would you like to see Miss Barrett?’ Then he went to announce me, then he returned. You were too unwell. And now it is years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if I had been close, so close, to some world’s wonder in chapel or crypt, only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some slight, so it now seems, slight and just-sufficient bar to admission, and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousand of miles, and the sight was never to be! Well, these Poems were to be—and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself.

  Yours ever faithfully,

  Robert Browning

  He had come to visit me?

  When?

  He said ‘years ago’ . . .

  I tried to remember the occasion but could find only the vaguest of memories, of Cousin John telling me that Browning wanted to meet me. As had Wordsworth, and the critic Chorley, and Richard Horne, and, and . . .

  I could have grown a large head at such kind attention and the interest of my peers but for the utter terror spurred by the very thought of such meetings. To think of Mr. Browning, standing outside this very house, waiting for John to return with an invitation.

  “I sent him away.”

  My words cut through the silence with their surprising accusation. I answered with a silent response: I send everyone away.

  But . . . what if Robert Browning would appear on this very day? If Cousin John rapped upon my door and said, “Mr. Browning is downstairs and he would like to see you,” would I let him in? Or would this dreaded, awful, annoying fear of meeting another face-to-face once again grab control and forbid my yearning for connection its chance?

  This letter, and its intimate glimpse into the heart and mind of Mr. Browning, was an extension of his hand towards mine, a gesture of introduction, an . . . opening of the door between us. Upon this recognition, I knew a decision was being placed before me: Should I push my door ajar and let the idea of a meeting gain a breath of new air?

  My heart pounded as the reckless thought took root. Before it was snuffed out by habit or convention, I drew a piece of stationery close and began my reply: Thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart. You meant to give me pleasure by your letter—and even if the object had not been answered, I ought still to thank you. But it is thoroughly answered. Such a letter from such a hand!

  I sat back, looking at the words. Were they too forward?

  Keep it about the writing.

  Yes, yes. That was the proper direction.

  Boldly, I left the opening paragraph as it was, then wrote that I would appreciate any comments or criticisms he had to offer. Poet to poet. Professional to professional.

  But then, before I thought enough to stop my pen, I found my words addressing our near-meeting:

  Is it indeed true that I was so near to the pleasure and honour of making your acquaintance? And can it be true that you look back upon the lost opportunity with any regret? But, you know, if you had entered the “crypt,” you might have caught cold, or been tired to death, and wished yourself “a thousand miles off,” which would have been worse than traveling them. It is not my interest however to put such thoughts in your head about its being “all for the best,” and I would rather hope (as I do) that what I lost by one chance I may recover by some future one. Winters shut me up as they do dormouses’ eyes: in the spring, we shall see. I am so much better that I seem turnin
g round to the outward world again.

  I sat back, stunned at my admission, stunned at my suggestion that we could meet, and might meet in the spring. We shall see.

  Indeed.

  Although the words within my letter had come from my hand (and thus from my mind and heart), to see I seem turning round to the outward world again in blackened ink, ascribed to be real, addressed to this man I had never met . . .

  Was I ready to venture into the world again after a half lifetime away? My hand told me so.

  And yet I knew too well the gulf between intent and action, logic and achievement. I could want to be like others from morning to night, yet until I actually took steps to succeed . . . it was like talking to the wind.

  When was the last time I had smelled the fresh air? Touched a tree’s leaf? Heard the laughter of children playing hoops or tag? When was the last time I had felt cobblestones under my slippered feet, or felt the sun upon my face?

  My memories sped in the reverse, settling upon the outing in my wheelchair when Flush was stolen. September. Of what year?

  1843. It was newly 1845. Sixteen months had passed since I had been out of my room and into the world.

  But remember what happened last time. Flush was stolen. If you go out again . . .

  No, Flush’s abduction was the excuse, not the reason for my selfimposed hermitage. The truth? Nothing since then had been strong enough to propel me out. Still to answer was why had this letter shined a light upon my darkness. Why had this letter ignited in me a desire for something different?

  I did not know, and was a little uncertain I wanted a true answer. For I enjoyed the sensation and was content—for now—to live in the presence of this moment and leave the future its . . . grand possibilities?

  I laughed at the very thought of it.

  Time had passed. I was not certain how much time, but the light in my room had changed from white to amber. And still I held the letter in my hand—my response to Robert Browning.

  The pluck I had shown earlier had left me, and doubt had taken its place. Perhaps it was not wise to respond to Mr. Browning at all.