How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  And suddenly, I knew she was wrong. Although my inner strength had been a constant in a life focused on adapting to my illnesses, now, with the reception of Robert’s letter—and my reply—everything had changed. I was not certain how exactly, but I could feel that a portion of my being had shifted from the known to the unknown, from the hazy towards the clear, from mere warmth to a heat . . .

  I shook the thought away. I was not a woman of heat, of ardour, or romantic fervor. As I had told Mary, my passion was reserved for things other than a flesh-and-blood man. In fact, what did I really know of flesh-and-blood men? Although I had six brothers within the confines of Wimpole Street, I did not see much difference between them and my sisters and I—except that they, as men, held power, while we, as women, held none. And yet . . . alone in my room, I was a far step removed from their lives. Had any of them ever loved a woman? Felt the kind of passion that was—and ever would be—absent from my own life?

  “Ba? You have left me well alone here,” Mary said.

  “So sorry.” To make amends I changed the subject from Robert. “Tell me what you have been doing.”

  But as she told me the goings-on of her life, I found my thoughts returning to the man who had invaded mine.

  Where was his letter?

  The light through my window was dimming with the quick coming of the winter dark. There had been no letter. Although my visit with Mary had distracted me, it had not erased the deep ache for Robert’s words. His thoughts. The precious allotment that would feed me until—

  I heard someone coming up the stairs. Running? No one ran in this house.

  Except . . .

  Flush sensed the difference in the gait too, for he lifted his head from my lap and looked towards the door.

  Wilson burst through it. In her hand she waved . . .

  “A letter?”

  “A letter!” She brought it to me. “Miss Henrietta had not gone through the post as she usually does, but as I was passing the drawing room, she called me in and gave this to me, to give to you, and—” she drew in an extra breath—“I brought it to you as fast as I could.”

  Although I longed to rip open the seal, although Wilson knew of my interest, I restrained myself for the sake of decorum—and the risk that my eagerness might cause her to want to stay in the hopes of hearing details. “Your effort is much appreciated,” I said as calmly as I could. “That will be all.”

  Her face fell and I could see her thinking, all? But being the good maid she was, she gave a little curtsy and said, “Yes, miss.”

  I felt sorry for her and nearly called her back. But the lure of reading Robert’s words in solitude overrode any urge to satisfy her curiosity.

  I let my legs dangle over the bed, broke the seal, and leaned towards the lamp for better reading: Dear Miss Barrett, I just shall say, in as few words as I can, that you make me very happy and that, now the beginning is over, I daresay I shall do better . . .

  I let my thrill in knowing that I had made him happy enrich my journey through his missive. He wrote of my work, of our common work, sharing details that solidified our connection. When he succinctly captured the essence of our art, I read the lines twice, as if taking two delicious sips of clear water. For an instructed eye loves to see where the brush has dipped twice in a lustrous colour, has lain insistingly along a favourite outline, dwelt lovingly in a grand shadow. For these “too muches” are so many helps to making out the real painter’s-picture, as he had it in his brain.

  I felt the same way about our art, the same deliciousness in sensing not only the result, but the process of the artist.

  But then, in his next line, I nearly panicked as he spoke of signing off. . . . Night is drawing on and I go out—yet cannot, quiet at conscience, till I repeat (to myself, for I never said it to you, I think) that your poetry must be, cannot but be, infinitely more to me than mine to you—for you do what I always wanted, hoped to do, and only seem now likely to do for the first time. You speak out, you. I only make men and women speak—give truth broken into prismatic hues, and fear the pure white light, even if it is in me. But I am going to try, so it will be no small comfort to have your company just now. You will nevermore, I hope, talk of “the honor of my acquaintance,” but I will joyfully wait for the delight of your friendship, and the Spring, and my Chapel-sight after all.

  I started at the last phrase. Chapel-sight? I had heard that before. . . .

  I went to the drawer in my desk, where I had faithfully kept his first letter. My eyes scanned the page, and then . . .

  I found it. The passage in question. Robert had been describing how he and Cousin John had come for a visit—a visit that had never transpired. 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. . . .

  I pulled in a sudden breath. Chapel-sight. The meanderings of my imagination found reality. He did wish to see me. To come face-to-face with my person.

  No!

  In spite of any inappropriate thought otherwise, I could not let it happen. Except for a chosen few, I did not see people, and never anyone of the male persuasion who was so . . . so . . .

  Young.

  My head shook in short bursts, confirming my heart. No, no, never would I consent to meet him. But I did not wish to lose this precious correspondent-camaraderie we had already established.

  And so, even though the hour was late, I pulled out paper and pen, ready to tell him what must be the boundaries of our relationship. And yet . . . I feared if I said it so plainly, he would take offence and write me nevermore.

  Instead, I did what I did best. I ignored the hint of a meeting and responded solely as a writer to a writer. I requested—as I had requested my other correspondents—that he give a true opinion of my work, that he teach me how to be a better poet.

  If life provided me more . . .

  I could not think about that, yet my cowardice did nothing to dispel the possibility of experiences beyond my control.

  The rush of fear—and excitement—overpowered me.

  NINE

  Spring!

  I stood at the opened window and peered out. Wilson had implored me to open the window wide, yet I had instructed her to open it but a little. Yet even though little, I could smell the difference in the air, the newness of it.

  The winter was over and I had just escaped with my life. I might thank it for coming at all. Spring—until this spring—had never caused such elation in me. But for the end to the cold and the menace of the wind, it was always just another passing, as inevitable as night into day. But this year, seeing it—reading of its arrival through Robert’s eyes . . .

  Had changed mine.

  I returned to the stack of his letters to find one penned a week ago. Once again—one time out of many—I let his response to the season become mine. Wednesday morning—spring! Real warm spring, dear Miss Barrett, and the birds know it; and in spring I shall see you, surely see you. For when did I once fail to get whatever I had set my heart upon?

  My heart skipped at his last, and in its own defence returned to his glory of spring.

  Without success. For though I could find pleasure in his mention of birds and warmth, and acknowledged my own relief in the disappearance of the east wind to mar their music, the intent that I so handily skipped over demanded attention.

  I shall see you, surely see you.

  The very thought of it sent me mentally staggering back, back, away from such a thought. Such a reality. My response was rife with alarm and angst. Two days ago I had reacted with panic and had written to Robert of my odd desire to lean completely out the window, escaping this prison with my life. It was a disturbing and unfamiliar desire of my soul to leap over the threshold of my world into another.

  I had alarmed him by my talk. I held his subsequent letter and read the last li
ne: And pray you not to “lean out of the window” when my own foot is only on the stair. Do wait a little for yours ever, RB.

  I glanced at the window again. The air had changed from cold to fresh. The pigeons cooed upon the rooftop instead of lying huddled against the wind. And though I never leaned out the window, I often stood at the edge of it and—

  Why did I never lean out the window? Was the act too bold? Too frightening? Too courageous?

  Yes.

  But also—since Robert—something more.

  The words began to flow within my mind and I hurried to my desk to get them down.

  Wednesday, 5 March 1845

  I did not mean to strike a “tragic chord,” indeed I did not! Sometimes one’s melancholy will be uppermost and sometimes one’s mirth—the world goes round, you know, and I suppose that in that letter of mine the melancholy took the turn. As to “escaping with my life,” it was just a phrase. At least it did not signify more than that the sense of mortality and discomfort of it is peculiarly strong with me when east winds are blowing and waters freezing. For the rest, I am essentially better, and have been for several winters—and I feel as if it were intended for me to live and not die, and I am reconciled to the feeling.

  I let my scribbling stop and allowed myself to fully comprehend my last words. Although odd, they were an essential—and surprising—truth. In the past two months, while corresponding with Robert (for he was decisively “Robert” to me now, at least within my own thoughts), I had turned a page of my own book of life. No more did I feel as though now was finite, or the future was a shadow that could never be caught. There was something beyond this room that perhaps could be mine.

  I returned to my letter:

  You are not to think—whatever I may have written or implied—that I lean either to the philosophy or affectation which beholds the world through darkness instead of light and speaks of it wailingly. Now, may God forbid that it should be so with me. I am not despondent by nature—and after a courage of bitter mental discipline and long bodily seclusion, I come out with two learnt lessons (as I sometimes say and oftener feel): the wisdom of cheerfulness and the duty of social intercourse. Anguish has instructed me in joy, and solitude in society. It has been a wholesome and not unnatural reaction. And altogether, I may say that the earth looks the brighter to me in proportion to my own deprivations: the laburnum trees and rose trees are plucked up by the roots, but the sunshine is in their places, and the root of the sunshine is above the storms. What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement!

  I stopped writing, and once again sat in amazement at how I could write to him in a captured moment, without looking up, without even noticing my pen moving from paper to inkwell and back again.

  I was done talking about me. It was time to address Robert’s view of life. I had the feeling—nearly a knowing—that he had not experienced any true sorrow, any trial that could push one to the edge of living or the need to escape. With only joy and contentment encircling him, how could he ever understand my journey and the situation that had placed me where I was? As I was?

  Suddenly, a thought: Should I tell him about Bro? Should I share with him the wrench of my heart and my very soul? And should I speak of this illness which had plagued me for—

  Tomorrow was my birthday! Tomorrow I would be thirty-nine. Nearly old. Nearly done.

  No. That was my old resignation. Things had changed.

  Yet Robert was six years younger, still young—in years and attitude. Although he had seen more of the world by being out amongst it, in a way, I felt as if I had experienced my fair (or unfair?) share from within. Robert had seen and enjoyed the heady experience, like a little boy visiting a favourite place. He saw no shadows, no clouds. To him the world was bright and good.

  I had lived within the shadows, with clouds hung low over this room which was my world. During our correspondence I had grown interested in his world, but I was still uncertain how he would react to mine.

  I shall see you, surely see you.

  In spite of my grand musings, the idea of his coming to my room still tore me with fright. I was safe within the letters, he there and me here. I had to encourage him to leave things as they were.

  I do like to hear testimonies like yours, to happiness, and I feel it is to be a testimony of a higher sort than the obvious one. Still, it is obvious too that you have been spared up to this time, the great natural afflictions against which we are nearly all called, sooner or later, to struggle and wrestle—or your step would not be “on the stair” quite so lightly. And so we turn to you, dear Mr. Browning, for comfort and gentle spiriting! Remember that as you owe your unscathed joy to God, you should pay it back to this world. And I thank you for some of it already.

  I reread the words, hoping he would gain appreciation of my view, and not take the words as chastisement. He could not help that he had not suffered, and I did not wish suffering upon him. The innocent joy he found in life was infectious. That is what I needed for him to know.

  How kind you are! How kindly and gently you speak to me! Some things you say are very touching, and some surprising, and although I am aware that you unconsciously exaggerate what I can be to you, yet it is delightful to be broad awake and think of you as my friend.

  May God bless you.

  Faithfully yours,

  Elizabeth B. Barrett

  “There,” I said aloud.

  Flush looked up at me, as if waiting to hear more.

  That was enough. For now.

  But what still needed doing . . .

  I pushed my chair back from the desk and stood. My eyes gazed at the opened window, that opening that separated my here and the rest, there.

  It was time to breach the barrier, to do what I told Robert I felt compelled to do.

  I stood in front of the window, and with arms unused to physicality beyond the pen, with effort and much puffing, I slid the window high within its frame. And then . . .

  Then I placed my hands just so upon the sill, my fingers the first to pass into strange territory. Encouraged that they did not retreat and suffered no repercussions, I urged my head and shoulders forwards, past the boundary, into the new frontier.

  My heart and lungs reacted to the effort—and the drama—but did not rebel. And so I stood there, hands on the sill, torso thrust forward into the world outside, and breathed deep.

  I looked right, then left. The rooftops of our neighbours greeted me, and I noticed another window down the way. Was someone in that room now? Was their window opened or closed? If I spoke loudly I could call to them.

  But no. I was not ready for that.

  And yet the lace of their curtain found release and fluttered its silent hello.

  I laughed, and felt a place within grow larger.

  Unused to my presence, a pigeon fluttered in agitation but soon settled and strutted its head in greeting. I heard a baby crying from some other window, but found only delight in its pure evidence of life.

  The breeze—which had full permission to enter my room, flew around my face and entered freely into the folds and crevasses of my dress. I shivered, but not from any cold. My lungs, jealous of the attention, drew the breeze deep, and only with reluctance let it free again. The smell! It was new and fresh and clear and held every promise of the rebirth of the season.

  All this wrapped around me and made me fully know that this small act of leaning through the window was a good thing, an accomplishment as heady and meaningful as any poem penned or letter created. It was a beginning.

  I lifted my face to the sun and let its warmth and light caress me with its favour.

  I sat before my dressing table while Wilson unrolled the rags from my hair. She was quite expert at forming the curls into right ringlets about my head.

  “Oh dear,” she said, her fingers squeezing a lock of hair. “Th
is one is still damp. The curl will surely fall.”

  I had some reading to do and did not wish to prolong my morning toilet. “Can you not just sweep it under, beneath the pinning. Or perhaps—”

  Suddenly a burst of laughter rushed up the stairs to our ears. One guffaw was unfamiliar.

  “Do we have a guest for luncheon?” I asked, although it was truly none of my business, as I never joined the family at meals.

  “It’s just Mr. Cook.”

  Just Mr. Cook? Her tone implied his presence was a normal occurrence. Although I was aware of his visits at dinner on occasion—when Papa was home—I did not know he still came during the day in Papa’s absence.

  “Does my father know about this?” I asked.

  I watched Wilson’s expression in the mirror as she set the ringlets right. “Oh no,” she said. “Or I wouldn’t think so.” She noticed my eyes upon her and met their reflection. “I don’t think he is aware of the continued intensity between your sister and . . . To him Mr. Cook is but a cousin, on visit.”

  “You imply he is more than that? Even after the horrible argument Henrietta had with Papa?”

  “Oh yes.” She tucked the offending curl beneath the rest and secured it with a pin. “You should see them together—they see no one but each other.”

  The thought that all this was going on unbeknownst to me, while I was in the house, the eldest sibling, the keeper of Papa’s honour . . .

  I put a hand on Wilson’s primping. “Please tell Miss Henrietta I wish to see her at once.”

  “But your hair—”

  “At once.” I had a sudden flush of fear that the both of them would appear in my presence. “Alone.”

  She left to convey my message and I finished my hair as best I could. Hair did not matter right now. The propriety and reputation of our family prevailed over all trivialities.

  I heard footsteps upon the stair and stood. Although I was not used to wielding authority of any kind, I did know from observation that the one in power did best to stand. Although neither I nor my sister possessed height as an attribute, I would ask her to—