How Do I Love Thee?

by Nancy Moser

  I teased him, even as I stated my true feelings. I simply had to be allowed the use of such words as kindness and grateful. Yet I forced myself to be put in his shoes. Was Robert so used to expressing himself freely that perhaps he had accrued an offhandedness in regard to people being deigned kind and grateful? As to myself, who had been an invalid for most of my life, I saw such traits as truly God-sent and did not offer mention of them lightly.

  I went back to my response.

  It is hard for you to understand what my mental position is after the peculiar experience I have suffered, and what a sort of feeling is irrepressible from me to you, when, from the height of your brilliant happy sphere, you ask for personal intercourse with me. What words but “kindness,” but “gratitude”? But I will not in any case be unkind and ungrateful, and do what is displeasing to you. And let us both leave the subject with the words because we perceive it from different points of view; we stand in the black and white sides of the shield; and there is no coming to a conclusion.

  Enough of that. I hoped the issue of kind and grateful was put to rest. Now, I proceeded towards the future, towards our next meeting.

  But you will come on Tuesday—and again, when you like—it will not be more “inconvenient” to me to be pleased. It will be delightful to receive you here whenever you like. Believe it of

  Your friend,

  E.B.B.

  And there it was, the complete fruition of our first meeting. The thing was accomplished, acknowledged, and set forward to occur again, and I could not have been happier.

  I noticed a flash of movement outside my room. “Wilson?” I asked.

  She came fully in, her curiosity unconcealed. Well? her expression asked.

  I folded the letter in half and placed it in an envelope. “It was a good letter received,” I said. “And I have made a good response. Would you see that this gets out, please?”

  “Immediately, miss.” And she meant it, for I heard her verily gallop down the stairs.

  It was none too fast for me.

  I lived by the post.

  Although I had always enjoyed receiving letters from my various correspondents, waiting for Robert’s next letter consumed me. I tried to read books but perused the same page—yea, the same sentence—over and over without gaining comprehension. I passed time in conversation with Arabel and Henrietta, but was very willing to let them hold center court, telling me of their days. Only once, when Henrietta began a discourse regarding Surtees Cook, did I long to burst through and say, “But I too have met a man of interest.” But I did not. For though I felt assured that Robert and I would continue our meetings (may there be many, many more!) I was old enough, wise enough, and owned enough of a pragmatic nature to realize that friendship was all I required of him, desired of him, and was all I had to give. To think there could be anything beyond such amity was absurd. I was thirty-nine years old. I was not a giggling girl, seeing romance in every shadow and sunbeam. And Robert was not a boy. Although he was six years my junior, he had shown no evidence that his life required a passion beyond the pen and his poetry. If it had required such, would he not have found it by now?

  My sisters sat with me on my sofa. Henrietta spread before me samples of fabric for a new dress. I had little interest but for their diversionary nature. In fact, “I see no need for a new dress at all, Henrietta. It is not as though the ones I wear each day are tattered.”

  “It would take a hundred years for you to tatter them, Ba. But the styles have changed. The bodice is no longer long and pointed, but ends straight across at the waistline.”

  I smiled at her enthusiasm. “I hardly think I need to worry about styles up here in my room.”

  “But you do not need to stay up here, Ba. You’ve been feeling better, yes? I see a new sparkle in your eyes, and your strength is—”

  “I have seen it too,” Arabel said. “The weather is quite delightful of late. I could ask Stormie or Alfred to take you on a carriage ride.”

  I could not remember the last time I had been in a carriage. “I am not sure about that.”

  “We could ask Dr. Chambers,” Arabel said. “If he approves, then—”

  “Then you would have true need of a new dress,” Henrietta said. “And perhaps one in a color beyond this depressing black. Perhaps a pretty pink or a pale yellow.”

  My head began to shake no of its own volition. I could not imagine myself in such colors. Pastels were for young girls, not for spinster poets.

  Henrietta popped to her feet. “I have other fabric samples downstairs. Ones that Arabel and I collected for our own dresses. I will go get—”

  Wilson came in, breathless. She held a letter in her hand. Her eyes surveyed the situation, and with calm containment, she set the envelope on the table beside the sofa. “A letter for you, Miss Elizabeth,” she said.

  With a glance I knew it was from Robert. The time for sisterly diversion was over. I needed to be alone. The only way—save being rude and asking them to leave directly—was to . . . “Why don’t the two of you go fetch the other samples. And perhaps some drawings of the new styles.”

  “I have a new Godey’s,” Henrietta said. “There is a dress on the second page I think you would love. It’s in a delicate lavender.”

  Lavender would never do, but I went on, encouraging their exit. “Go now, both of you, and while you are gone, I will read my letter.”

  Wilson saw them out, did not leave, but rather busied herself arranging items in the bureau. She had been so supportive of me during my correspondence with Robert, and so discreet, I let her stay.

  Upon opening the letter and setting my eyes upon the very first words . . .

  I recoiled by instinct, and must have gasped, for Wilson came to my side, offering aid.

  “No, no,” I said, waving her away. “Go, just go. And shut the door behind you!”

  I did not watch her go but assumed she did, for my sight was locked upon the awful words from Robert. Upon second reading I grouped them in short snippets that stood out amidst his flowery prose.

  I love you.

  Marry me.

  You, above all women.

  Your beauty.

  Ecstasy.

  Beyond reason.

  Passion.

  “No! No, no, no, no!”

  I threw the pages to the floor. He had been rash, impulsive, impetuous, and imprudent. We had spent four months carefully sowing the seed of our friendship, watching it grow into a seedling that held the promise of a continued acquaintance, a deepening camaraderie, a delicate alliance, a precious companionship, one poet to another.

  You are not without blame.

  Indeed, I had allowed my femaleness to touch upon the connection of us, man and woman, and had enjoyed the foreign sensation. And yet, I had also contained myself and dispelled such an absurd notion as beyond my wishes, my ability, and all possibilities. For Robert to dive from the precipice of friendship into the well of love and passion . . .

  Your beauty . . .

  “My beauty?” Flush looked up at me, as if wondering how he could be expected to answer such a question. Indeed. For I knew I was not beautiful. I was pale and tiny, with eyes too dark and large for my face. My hair was my one virtue, but I had it styled with curls far forward, to hide the insufficiencies of my countenance. Although the words I placed within my poems and prose had merit, the words that came directly from my mouth seemed laughable as my voice revealed itself to be weak, thin, and without any pleasant tone or tenor. That Robert had kept control of his emotions during the separation created by writing letters, but had flown into such reckless talk upon one visit . . .

  His intemperate fancies were unbecoming. And mortifying. We were not lovers, we were comrades, friends, fellow mentors. He mocked me by acting as if there were something more—could be something more. Such wild speaking! It was a mere poet’s fancy, a confusion between the woman and the poetry. And above all else, it must be stopped. At once.

  I found paper and
pen and began a reply:

  You do not know what pain you give me in speaking so wildly. And if I disobey you, my dear friend, in speaking of your wild speaking, I do it not to displease you, but to be in my own eyes, and before God, a little more worthy, or less unworthy, of a generosity from which I recoil by instinct and at the first glance. My silence would be the most disloyal of all means of expression. Listen to me then in this. You have said some intemperate things . . . fancies, which you will not say over again, nor unsay, but forget at once, and forever; and so will die out between you and me alone, like a misprint between you and the printer. And this you will do for my sake, I who am your friend (and you have none truer) and this I ask, because it is a condition necessary to our future liberty of intercourse.

  I looked up from the page, realizing that I had forgotten to breathe, as all my breath and life had gone into the flush of words upon the pages, chastising him for his words upon his page. Did he not realize that by saying what he did he may have ruined everything? Tipped the delicate balance?

  The question remained: Did I want our friendship to continue? Could it continue with his reckless words hanging between us? A rung bell cannot be unrung. . . . How could we recapture what we had, knowing what we knew, feeling what we felt?

  There would have to be rules made and conditions met—stringently adhered to. If he could not agree to these conditions, then what we had would be no more. He had to understand that, he had to realize the delicate conditions upon which I based my life.

  You remember—surely you do—that I am in the most exceptional of positions; and that because of it, I am able to receive you as I did on Tuesday; and that, for me to listen to “unconscious exaggerations,” is as unbecoming to the humilities of my position, as unpropitious (which is of more consequence) to the prosperities of yours. Now, if there should be one word of answer attempted to this; or of reference; I must not . . . I will not see you again, and you will justify me later in your heart.

  So for my sake you will not say it and spare me the sadness of having to break an intercourse just as it is promising pleasure to me. To me who has had so many sadnesses and so few pleasures . . . You will do this! and I shall owe you my tranquillity, as one gift of many. For I have much to receive from you in all the free gifts of thinking, teaching, master-spirits . . . ! I appreciate you, as none can more. Your influence and help in poetry will be full of good and gladness to me—for with many to love me in this house, there is no one to judge me. Your friendship and sympathy will be dear and precious to me all my life. The mistakes I have made, that need your forgiveness, I put away gently, and with grateful tears in my eyes. You are not displeased with me? That would be hail and lightning together. I do not write as I might, of some words of yours, but you know that I am not a stone, even if silent like one. And if in the unsilence, I have said one word to vex you, pity me for having had to say it. And for the rest, may God bless you far beyond the reach of vexation from my words or my deeds!

  Your friend in grateful regard,

  E.B.B.

  I sat back and looked at the letter. How would he react to it? I did not wish to upset him and yet with his impulsive . . . He had been far too forward, putting me in the position to rein him in. More than anything I prayed that he would accept the distinctive limits that had to be put around our relationship, for if he did not, then we could be no more.

  Suddenly, I heard a bump against the door, then a rustling of skirt to skirt, then whispering. Had I alarmed Wilson so greatly that she had run to my sisters?

  Tucking the letter into an envelope, I sealed it, addressed it, and set it on the table beside me—facedown. I pressed a hand to my chest and allowed myself fully three breaths in and out. They were accomplished raggedly, but they were accomplished. Only then did I say, “Come in.”

  The door opened slowly and the three women peered in at me as a gaggle, their faces full of questions and concern. I was touched by their caring but wondered how much they knew. So far Wilson had been my confidante. As a result of my outburst, had I forced her to break our bond of privacy?

  I could not proceed until I knew what they knew. I looked at my maid. “What did you tell them?”

  “That you have received a letter that has upset you horribly.” But as soon as she glanced at Arabel, and then at Henrietta, I knew she had told them more.

  Henrietta broke from their trio and ran to my side, kneeling beside me. “Why didn’t you tell us Mr. Browning had come to call? Or that you . . . you two . . .”

  I glared at Wilson, but it was Arabel who came to her defence. “She came to us to tell us you were sorely upset, but would not tell us the reason until we ordered her to.”

  “They threatened me with dismissal if I didn’t tell them, Miss Elizabeth. I tried not to, truly I did.”

  I believed her. Although I had never heard Arabel talk sternly to any of the servants, Henrietta was not averse to playing the part of mistress to a fuller extent.

  Arabel came into the room, and Wilson followed, shutting the door behind her. “What can we do to help?” Arabel asked. “We could send one of the brothers after him, to berate him for breaking your heart.”

  “We could get Henry to do more than berate,” Henrietta said.

  They obviously had it all wrong, and yet in quick retrospect I could see how my dramatic reaction would elicit such a conclusion. “There will be no need of that,” I said. “Mr. Browning has not abandoned me. Quite the opposite.” I let those three words imply the full of it.

  As if in concert, the eyebrows of all three ladies rose. “He . . . he declared himself?”

  “Fully and with flourish,” I said.

  “After one meeting?” Arabel asked.

  I nodded.

  Henrietta laughed, and then she began to applaud. “Bravo, Ba! I never would have guessed you were capable . . . that you had that kind of power . . .”

  My face grew hot. “I had no such power, I did not try to—”

  “All the better,” Henrietta said. “And more impressive.”

  The heat intensified, as did an odd sensation of pleasure. Although I was still appalled and upset by Robert’s wild declarations, it was a compliment to my womanhood. I, who had left my womanhood behind years ago.

  “How did you respond?” Arabel asked.

  I retrieved the letter. “It is done. Here.”

  Henrietta gasped. “You told him to never come back?”

  “I spelled out to him the boundaries of our friendship. If he abides by them, then we can continue our meetings. If he cannot, then . . .”

  Henrietta stood. “What are your boundaries?”

  “I wish for him to be my friend, my peer, and my teacher.”

  Her face looked aghast. “That’s all?”

  After a moment of silence, we all laughed, and it came as good relief. “That is all,” I said. “I am not a woman who seeks love. I seek—”

  “You do not seek it, but perhaps it has found you just the same.”

  “No,” I said emphatically. “Most certainly not. I am too old, too ill, too—”

  “Nonsense,” Henrietta said. “Mr. Browning knows all of these things and yet he still declared himself to you. As such, you cannot use them as excuses against it.”

  She was right.

  Yet the way my stomach tightened and my lungs clenched . . .

  “Are you afraid of love?” Arabel asked.

  Henrietta let out a sarcastic harrumph. “That is the way Papa would like it to be.” She gently shoved my legs to the side so she could sit on the edge of the sofa beside me. Her voice softened. “But even Papa does not have the power to stop love.” She nodded twice.

  “So you love Mr. Cook?”

  “We love each other.”

  I knew there had been an infatuation, but I thought Papa’s anger against it had quelled its growth into love. “You are not considering marriage, are you?” I asked.

  “We would like to marry. . . .”

  Ah.
So. Wanting to marry and getting Papa to agree to it were two drastically different things. Like wanting the moon to turn green and getting it to do so.

  Henrietta changed the direction of our conversation away from herself. “If you, as Papa’s favourite, could get him to agree to your marriage—”

  “Never!” I said.

  Henrietta studied me a moment. “Mr. Browning did not propose?”

  I would neither confirm nor deny. The point was that marriage in the Barrett household was not an option. It had always been so. There was no discussion.

  Although I appreciated their concern, and loved them for their support, nothing would be gained from further discussion. I extended the letter into the air between us. “Would one of you see that this is posted as soon as possible?”

  All three women stared at the letter, none taking it. “You have refused him?” Henrietta asked.

  I could not answer directly without saying too much. I repeated myself. “I have set the boundaries. What happens next is up to him.”

  “I will take it,” Wilson said, snatching it away from me.

  The sisters readied to leave. Arabel turned at the door. “Does Papa know Mr. Browning came to visit?”

  “He does,” I said. “He gave his approval, but—” I remembered my blunder in sharing with him my agitation that same evening. “If Robert comes again, I would rather Papa did not know.”

  Both sisters nodded, but Henrietta added, “Papa only knows a small portion of Mr. Cook’s visits. How I wish there were no need to deceive him,” she said.

  Deceive Papa? Was that what I was doing?

  My mood—which had been lifted by my sisters’ visit—fell into greater depths. A good daughter did not deceive her beloved father. If I wished to be a good daughter, I would revise the letter that Wilson held in her hands and tell Robert it was finished for good. There would be no more visits. His impulsive declarations gave me a good excuse to end it all, right now, right here.