by Nancy Moser
Once he was settled across from me, he asked, “If you will pardon my intrusion . . . you wear mourning, or do you simply prefer black for fashion?”
“I . . .” I found I had no explanation that I wished to share—even with Robert. “Both,” I said, leaving it at that.
“I am sorry. I shouldn’t have asked such a thing. A thousand pardons.”
“Granted,” I said. But since he had breached the personal subject of looks, I asked a question of my own. “Your appearance does not match your work.”
“Match . . . ?”
Could I explain it well? “You do not look the poet. You are not timid or withdrawn, nor do you act pensive or overtly intellectual.”
His laugh was boisterous. “Oh no, I try very hard to hide my intellect.” He leaned forwards in confidentiality. “You see, London society disdains undue inflections of the mind as much as they disdain a paletot for evening wear. Or if one does possess a mind as well as the coveted wit and fashion, it is best to keep it hidden in a pocket until one is alone.”
“Or among true friends,” I said.
His smile was genuine. “Or among true friends.”
Then, to my dismay, he sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and began to dissect me with his gaze. “But as to you, Miss Barrett, does your appearance harmonize with the essence of your work?”
I chastised myself for ever initiating the subject of appearances. “I hope not,” I said.
He seemed surprised. “Whyever do you say that?”
“Because I am here, like this . . .”
“I find here to be an interesting locale, and your like this to be completely acceptable, as it is you I have come to see. Extraneous details have no bearing in you any more than my coat and walking cane have any bearing on me. We each are as we are.”
I knew he was exaggerating for my benefit, and loved him for it. But I had to turn the conversation from our façades. “Speaking of our work . . .”
“Were we speaking of our work?”
He made me smile. “We are as of now. How do you go about the task? Writing is such joy to me and—”
“Joy?” He shook his head. “I take no pleasure in writing—none, in the mere act—though all pleasure in the sense of fulfilling a duty, whence, if I have done my real best . . . judge how heartbreaking a matter it is to be pronounced a poor creature by this critic or that acquaintance. But I think you like the operation of writing as I should like that of painting or making music, do you not?”
“I do. Greatly.”
“I thought as much.”
“But,” I said, “you will never persuade me that I am better at the process, or do as well as you. We look from different points of view. Yours is the point of attainment.”
He shrugged. “I know there is a great delight in the heart of the thing; and use and forethought have made me ready at all times to set to work. But I don’t know why my heart sinks whenever I open my desk and rises when I shut it.”
“I cannot believe that,” I said.
He raised a hand to take a vow. “Writing is my life, but it is work.” He grinned. “And I have always disdained work.”
I remembered Mary Mitford’s objection to Robert—that he had never held a job, that his father financed his publishing ventures. But I could not let my thoughts linger there too long. His father loved him and supported him in all ways. That was to be commended.
“And you, Miss Barrett. I suppose you run to your pen each morning as if it were fresh air just waiting to be breathed in and exhaled into beautiful poetry.”
“If only it would be created as easily as breathing.”
“But you enjoy the process, in spite of the challenge.”
“Perhaps because of the challenge.”
“Ah, there it is,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “The difference between us. You embrace the challenge and I seek an easier way.”
“Whether struggle or ease, we both gain results,” I said.
“But you to a greater degree. For who knows my name?”
“Plenty, I would think. Your work, your plays—”
He laughed. “Have earned the scorn of many, the praise of few, and too few shillings to repay my father for the process. But you, Miss Barrett, you are heralded as the greatest poetess of the age. All Britain has heard of you—and America besides.”
I did not want to compare our successes, for it would cause both of us embarrassment. “I do not care for money or fame,” I said, “only for—”
He laughed and slapped a hand upon his thigh. “Oh, to not care for money! I admire you for that, Miss Barrett.”
He took me wrongly. “I only meant that I have resigned myself to never gaining good compensation from my writing like Wordsworth or Dickens. If only I can write enough, earn enough, be known enough to be allowed to continue to be published . . .”
“Aha! So your joy in writing is connected to being published?”
I felt myself redden. “The Bible says we are not to place our light under a bushel, but place it on a stand for all the world to see.”
“On that stand your work is surely a beacon. And mine is a flickering candle, ready to be snuffed into darkness by the faintest breeze.”
“No, Mr. Browning. Do not say such a thing.”
“I may say it because it is true. But be assured, Miss Barrett, that I hold no jealousy towards your success, only admiration and pleasure. I did not come here to compete with you, but to know you. You, just you, Miss Barrett.”
I believed him. And all my fears regarding his motivation, that he might want to see me out of curiosity, or to be able to say that he had attained what no one else ever could, was stifled and extinguished. I felt assured enough—even after this short knowing—that he wished to visit me for me, and me alone.
“I just thought of something,” he said. “If you had not mentioned my work in your ‘Lady Geraldine,’ I would not have written to you and—”
I held up a hand, stopping his words. “You wrote to me because of a mention in one of my poems?”
“Why, yes. I told you as much in my first letter.”
“No, you did not,” I said.
“Yes, I am quite certain I did.”
“No, you did not,” I repeated, and I knew I was right, for I had read and reread the letter so many times that I nearly knew it by rote. “You said, ‘I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett’ and—”
“Did I say it so?”
“You did. And you did not mention ‘Lady Geraldine.’ ”
He shrugged. “Well, then, perhaps I didn’t. But I did mention your poems, I do remember that distinctly, so whether or not I pointed out your mention of my ‘Pomegranate’ by name, the effect of my contacting you—and the sentiment within that letter—are the same.” He reached across the space between us and touched the edge of the sofa. “I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett. And now, having met you, I have even more to love.”
He had passed over the point in contention, but it still hung with me. “If not for the mention of your work in mine—” I said again.
“That whim to mention a fellow poet . . .”
“We would not be—”
“Here. Now. Fully met.”
Oh yes.
The clock on the mantel struck the half hour. I would not have been surprised if it had struck six, but it was only four-thirty. And yet that was enough. For now. Our first meeting had exceeded all my hopes and expectations. It was best to let it end on this perfection.
As if reading my mind, he stood. “I should go.”
“Yes,” I said, although reluctance was heavy upon me. “You will come again?”
His eyes sparkled and his face beamed. “Tomorrow?”
My, my! “Next Tuesday, at this same time?”
“So long . . .”
I agreed it would seem a lifetime, and yet I wished a bit of time to fully digest . . .
I thought of something.
“Please, Mr. Browning, a favour. Tell no one of our meeting.”
He pondered this a moment. “I suppose that means I cannot dance through the streets, shouting your name to the heavens, exuberant with glee?”
“Not today.”
He reached down to kiss my hand once more. “As you wish, dear lady. Till Tuesday, then.”
I called for Wilson and she showed him the door. I held my breath in order to hear every footfall, every word, wishing to hold on to his presence as long as possible.
And then there was silence. Silence on the outside, but within . . . such a cacophony of noise arose within me, as if every thought, every emotion, every aspiration ever pondered had been awakened and were all talking at once, giving their opinions and offering advice. I pressed my hands against my head, trying to contain—
Wilson rushed into the room, out of breath. I had not even heard herreturn up the stairs. “How did it—?” Upon seeing me she stopped short. “Miss? Are you all right?”
I lowered my hands, but the inner noise did not dissipate. “I am . . . I am fine.”
Wilson gave me one of her appraising looks and put her hands upon her hips. “You don’t look fine, not one little bit. In fact, I am thinking you need to get in your bed right this minute. I could make you a draught to help you sleep and—”
Sleep was the last thing I wanted. “Coffee,” I said. “I want strong coffee.”
“But it will only keep you awake and—”
“Yes.”
She eyed me a moment, then smiled. “Mr. Browning riled you up, didn’t he?”
“He did no such thing.”
Her smiled broadened. “Begging your pardon, but by that blush upon your face, I’d say you were lying to me.”
“Just get me the coffee, Wilson. And be quick about it.” I added, “Please.”
“Yes’m,” she said. But she was smiling as she left.
Which caused me to do the same. Although I was not unfamiliar with the facial expression, today, at this moment, it sprang from a deeper place than had heretofore been tapped.
What did it mean? I did not know.
But I liked it. Immensely.
Wilson brought the coffee and I drank two cups, wishing to prolong the swell of my happiness. But my elation was short-lived. In its place came the flood of pent-up feelings that had assailed me upon Robert’s departure. The initial delight gave way to second-guessing. What did he truly think of me? Had I made a good impression? Had he enjoyed our encounter as much as I?
I relived every memory, testing each word, each gesture, each expression through the filter of the rationality that came with the passage of time. I expected to find differences between what I had felt within the moment and what I could study from a distance. Yet I was pleasantly surprised to find there was no alteration. The heady euphoria of our conversation held fast—each witty comment, each compliment, each smile, each laugh, each . . . touch.
I singled out touch as the one element, the one singular sensation that was completely new to me. I could not remember ever touching or being touched by a man who was not a relative or a doctor delivering his healing.
And yet, Robert had taken my hand as easily as if such contact were the norm. Which made me . . . Had Robert been close to many women? Surely he had. He was a dynamic, charismatic, handsome man who traveled through society with more ease than I traveled from one side of my room to the other.
The tug in my midsection shocked me. What was this odd sensation? Could it . . . no, certainly it could not be . . . yet it must be . . .
Jealousy?
I gasped at the knowledge.
I had not been immune to this vice—Mrs. Norton, in particular, elicited its fire in me—but I had never experienced its bite in regard to a man. A young man, at least. I held dim memories of feeling jealous of Mr. Boyd’s attentions towards others, and yet that was not the same. Mr. Boyd was decades my senior. He had been introduced into our family as a tutor, and had remained a mentor, with me his adoring pupil. There had been no touch of a man, as a man. . . .
I had been ill since I was a young teen. My entire womanly years had been spent set apart from the normal places where girls met boys and let nature and romance take their course. I had told myself I did not care, that I—among all females—did not need or desire amour.
And this is not that.
“No, it is not,” I said aloud. “Stop being the silly schoolgirl. It is utterly inappropriate and unbecom—”
I stopped chastising myself when I heard footsteps upon the stairs. Papa’s footsteps! I looked to the clock. It was time for our evening prayers. Normally I looked forward to this time shared, but tonight . . . I had no talent for hiding agitation. Papa had often claimed that my face was as transparent as my heart. I had always taken his assessment as a compliment, but tonight, some guile would have served me well.
As usual, he paused at the door and knocked on the jamb. “Ba?”
Fueled by a new breath, I answered him, “Come in, Papa.”
He entered, with his Bible beneath his arm. Then he stopped. “What is wrong? What happened?”
With his question came an answer, spilling from my lips with an abandon that was unfamiliar. “I am all right, Papa. Do not worry about me, but . . . but it is most extraordinary how the meeting of Mr. Browning does beset me—I suppose it is not being used to seeing strangers in some degree—but it haunts me. It is a . . . a persecution.”
His eyebrows met at the middle. “He is . . . Mr. Browning is your poet?”
His wording was far too apt. “He is not my poet, Papa, but a fellow poet, a comrade.”
“So he did come to call today?”
“Yes.”
“And he upset you. And so . . .” He waved a hand between us, as if swatting the very thought of Robert away. “You must not see him again.”
“No, no, Papa,” I said. “It is not a bad reaction, but simply one unexpected. I am out of practice at such things and—”
“Such things being . . . ?”
“Meeting face-to-face with any visitor outside the family. Other than Miss Mitford, Mrs. Jameson, and a few others, I only converse—in person—with family.”
“I should never have given my permission.”
I had made a huge blunder telling him about the meeting. So used was I to telling him everything. . . . And yet I had to calm down or all would be lost. With a determination that I rarely tapped, I dug deep within, past the excitement and questions, and found the pool of normalcy that had served me all these years. “I assure you that is not necessary, Papa,” I said, trying to sound offhand. “We are both working on projects that need the additional help of a peer’s edit, so you see, it would serve us both if our meetings continued. Our work would be served well.”
He looked at me askance and I knew he was not convinced.
I stood and extended my hand, inviting him towards me. “Our prayers, Papa?”
We knelt together and prayed as we did every evening.
But not exactly as we did . . . for on this evening my prayers were transformed and expanded to include one other person who deserved God’s blessings.
“Miss. Miss?”
I awakened to Wilson nudging my shoulder. She did not usually awaken me.
I opened one eye, then closed it. “Leave me be. It was late before I slept and I wish to—”
“Then I suppose you are not interested in reading a certain letter from a certain gentleman?”
I sprang upwards, letting the bedclothes fall from my shoulders and gather on my lap. “A let—?”
She handed it to me with a dramatic sweep of her arm. “He musta wrote it soon as he got home for you to get it this very morning.”
So it would seem. I broke the seal, then thought better of the company. What if he wrote so soon after to tell me that, though he esteemed me as a correspondent, he would not be able to visit me again?
I held the letter to my chest and told Wilson, “Thank you for bringing it
so quickly. That will be all.”
She gave me a pout but left me to my privacy.
I closed my eyes and uttered a quick prayer. Then I read the letter:
Tuesday Evening
I trust to you for a true account of how you are—if tired, if not tired, if I did wrong in any thing—or, if you please, right in any thing (only, not one more word about my “kindness,” which, to get done with, I will grant is exceptive). But let us so arrange matters if possible, and why should it not be that my great happiness, such as it will be if I see you as this morning from time to time, may be obtained at the cost of as little inconvenience to you as we can contrive. For an instance, they all say I speak very loud (a trick caught from having to talk with a deaf relative of mine). And did I stay too long?
I will tell you unhesitatingly of any errors I find in the printing of your books—nay, I will again say, do not humiliate me by calling me “kind” in that way.
I am proud and happy in your friendship—now and ever. May God bless you!
R.B.
A laugh escaped my lips and I halted its expansion with a hand. Robert was worried about talking too loudly? Staying too long? Such trifles compared to the dire alternatives that had wracked my mind! All was well. There would be more meetings!
I had to respond to him at once, and so scrambled out of bed to fetch a lap desk and stationery. I returned to the covers and puffed the pillows just so behind me. I poised the pen above paper, giving myself but a moment to let my thoughts congeal.
And then, I began. . . .
Indeed there was nothing wrong—how could there be? And there was everything right—as how should there not be? And as for the “loud speaking,” I did not hear any, and, instead of being worse, I ought to be better for what was certainly (to speak it, or be silent of it) happiness and honour to me yesterday.
Which reminds me to observe that you are so restricting our vocabulary as to be ominous of silence. First, one word is not to be spoken—and then, another is not. And why? Why deny me the use of such words as have natural feelings belonging to them? And how can the use of such be “humiliating” to you? If my heart were open to you, you could see nothing offensive to you in any thought or trace of thought that has been there.