by Nancy Moser
“And you . . . ?”
“I have made my choice.”
“And?”
I held out my hand. “I choose you.”
He kissed my hand—as I expected him to—and the very expectation of such an act swept through me with new pleasure. Me. Having a man kiss my hand with true affection. Expecting him to extend the gesture.
Then Robert drew back, his face serious. “I . . . you must understand why I turn my thoughts in this direction. If it is indeed as you fear, and no endeavour or concession on my part will serve under any circumstances—and by endeavour, I mean all that heart and soul could bring the flesh to perform . . .” His brow tightened and I could see he was frustrated with what he wanted to say. But then he made an inner decision and sealed it with a nod. “Let me tell you a story . . . the likelihood is, I overfrighten myself for you, by the involuntary contrast with those here in this house. If I was home and went with a letter downstairs and said simply, ‘I want this taken to such and such direction tonight, and am unwell and unable to go; will you take it now?’ my father would not say a word, or rather would say a dozen cheerful absurdities about his ‘wanting a walk,’ ‘just having been wishing to go out,’ etcetera. Do you know that at night he sits studying my works, illustrating them—I will bring you drawings to make you laugh—and yesterday I picked up a crumpled bit of paper—his notion of what a criticism on my last work ought to be—no criticisms that have appeared satisfy him!” He smiled. “Regarding whatever favour I asked, whatever task I desired, he would be kind—out of love. And my mother, she loves me more than all necessity. How I would love for you to meet them. At least my sister, Sarianna.”
He looked up at me, his eyes imploring. Do you understand what I am trying to say?
I did. But I could not meet his family—who did know of our love. By meeting them, they would surely be held liable for our future actions. I did not wish them to suffer any slinging of the mud. I was also afraid of not being liked enough. In turn, how could I not like them? Everything was at once too near and too far, too much and not enough.
Yet the image of his father, so jovial and supportive, so willing to aid his son in whatever his endeavour might be—from posting a love letter to firmly establishing a place in the literary world. The contrast was severe and unspoken. The subterfuge that was a necessary component of life on Wimpole Street—that I could not even ask Papa to post a letter without fear. To others I painted Papa as eccentric but loving, but to Robert, I gave a darker opinion. Could both papas be a true depiction?
They were. Which confused me even more. Yet I knew that in order to keep Robert from facing him, I had to present Papa as inaccessible and intimidating. I could not risk a confrontation between them, a confrontation where I would be forced to publicly choose.
And it was not just Papa who was kept in the dark. My entire family was ignorant of our relationship—even my sisters. We timed Robert’s visits when they were absent, and Wilson had the responsibility of posting my letters and listening for the knock of the postman on the door to retrieve his from the mail slot.
Robert’s visits were twice a week now, and our letters a daily—if not more frequent—occurrence. Each letter, each visit, spun another layer around our loving cocoon. And we dared not let anyone else know of it lest they intercede and rip a gaping hole. . . .
We told no friends, not even Cousin John, Anna Jameson, or Mary Mitford. It was not that we distrusted their ability to hold a secret sacred, but the fact that one slip . . . I shuddered to imagine Papa finding out in some innocuous, though disastrous, way. A passing comment from the sweet shop where Robert bought a bit of candy for me, a crony of Cousin John’s who had heard slim mention of the liaisons going on at Wimpole Street: Shhh! Don’t say a word. And what if someone in the press found out that two poets—including the enigmatic, reclusive Elizabeth Barrett— were having clandestine meetings? The “meetings” would quickly turn into “rendezvous” and then into “an affair.”
I dismissed the dismal designation. We were not having a love affair, we were in love, in its most sacred and pure form: Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Love never faileth.
Love was a sacred gift from God. I did not wish for it to fail, and so, I held it close and used the full of my restraint. The only way to keep our secret was to keep our secret. To the world Robert’s visits could hold no more import than those of Cousin John’s.
I felt Robert’s hand upon mine. “Ba? Do you understand what I am trying to say?”
“I do. I celebrate the love you share with your parents. I glory in it—for you. And I . . . I grieve what is lacking . . .”
“I grieve with you.”
“Which makes it almost bearable.”
“Almost?”
It was far more complicated than I could describe. Yet I had to try. “I am reluctant to say this, but in many ways my prison is of my own making. I made it known that I was content in my room with my books and my writing, I was content to be in the house with my family, but apart from them. Papa abided by my wishes and found benefit to them. In many ways it was I who assigned him his role—and took up my own.”
“Benefit for whom?” Robert asked.
I shook my head, needing to continue. “You own a past full of sunshine and happiness, Robert, but I . . . my past is a drop of ink in a pool of clear water. It radiates outwards, seeping into every droplet, coloring the clearness with dark. The stain cannot be removed.”
“But surely if more clear water is added, the darkness can be diluted.”
I smiled and cupped his face with a hand. “You are my clear water, Robert. Refreshing and brilliant.”
“I do my very best.”
And with a surge of new hope and confidence, I had the feeling his best would be enough.
Robert left me and the echo of his voice hung within the confines of my room. But suddenly, as I settled onto my sofa to suffer the rest of the day without him, its fading tone filled me with panic. That he could come and go, and I . . . could not?
It was not only envy that stepped into my presence but an unworthiness. Through our love, it was I who was pulling him away from the life and world outside these walls and forcing him to enter this meager sanctum. But I love you anyway, dear Ba, your smile, your soft voice, your— I shook my head against my imagining of Robert’s retort. He had not offered such a listing, but suddenly I feared he might. And though many women might enjoy the offering of such compliments, I did not want him to love me based on temporal things like a smile or voice or presence, things that could vanish through mood or an unexpected cloud. He must love me for the sake of love alone and—
I reached for the notebook which was always close by. All thoughts of composing epic poems of Greek heroes had left me. The words that often burst from my soul onto the paper in recent days would be considered mere nothings to the world, but they were everything to me: sonnets of love and angst and confusion. Sonnets from my heart, not from any knowledge or intellect or desire to create prose or poem deemed worthy of criticism or praise.
No indeed. These were the pourings from my heart for my heart, though perhaps they were also an offering to God, for it was His eyes alone who read them. Even I did not dwell upon the words once they moved from mind to pen. They did not invoke the need for edit or change, but fell upon the page complete within that moment, expressing that moment, releasing that moment. . . .
And so, I set the newest words free.
If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love’s sake only. Do not say
“I love her for her smile—her look—her way
Of speaking gently—for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and c
ertes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”—
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought,
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,
A creature might forget to weep, who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!
But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.
I pulled pen away from paper and allowed myself to breathe. Such was the way while writing these odes, as if a breath of air was needed to fuel the start, and was held until the final word.
I glanced at the door and once again was struck by the alteration in my life when Robert was with me—and when he was not. I was unworthy of such love. Its very presence enlarged my worth.
It enlarged my strength, my determination, my cour—
I heard my brothers and sisters below, and then . . . as if their noise controlled all my other senses, I suddenly noticed how warm it was in this place I called home. I had a thermometer in my room and was astounded to read it at sixty-eight.
“It cannot be January anymore. I deem it to be April and I must leave this room!”
I laughed at my pluck, and before my usual restraint could hold me back, I rose and started for the stairs.
Passing through the doorway into the hall was done with a burst of bravado, and yet, standing on the upper landing I experienced a heady wave of hesitation. I had rarely walked these stairs in six years. During my few ventures beyond my room, one of my brothers had usually carried me. Who was I to think I was strong enough of body or mind or soul or—?
“Stop it!” I whispered to myself. I could not allow mutiny to gain a stronghold. I held the upper banister as if gripping the very axis of the earth. Robert loves me. Robert loves me. Take my strength from that.
Robert, a man who was noble as a king. If he were here, he would prevail against my fears and fling his royal cloak around me, conquer all fear, and tease away the last misgiving.
With that image encasing my nerves, I knew that here, in this place, in this moment, with the knowledge of all he was and who I was within his love . . . all strife ended. He had invited me to come forth. He had done all he could do. It was my choice to take the next step from the past into the future.
I spoke to his mental image as a prayer: Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth.
Looking down the expanse of stairs that spanned the distance between me and my family, I felt the void expand. I took a step back, newly afraid. To mark this length of space was more than moving from here to there, it was a moving from then to now—with six years of time between—and then beyond the moment of now into the future. And yet, amid my hesitation I knew that I sought no copy of my life’s first half. I had to leave those pages with all their long musings curled with age. I was being offered my future’s epigraph, which would declare the new theme of my life. Robert was my angel, unhoped for in the world, but . . . mine.
I drew in a breath to strengthen me, and with its release prayed to God for a dose of His strength, which would far surpass my own.
And with another breath, and then another, I nodded my consent, and with hand clutching the railing, with body leaning to its side for support, I descended a step.
And then another.
And another.
My legs rebelled at the effort, having been pampered into weakness by years of unuse. I nearly stumbled, but caught myself from full falling.
I paused to recollect my strength. My heart beat double time from the near fall, as well as the intensity and immensity of my journey. The sound of my siblings grew louder, and my heart beat even faster at the imagined look on their faces when they saw me standing in the doorway. I stifled a laugh and let my joy and anticipation give me confidence to keep going.
I reached the proper landing, and with a sudden fear that one of them would spot me by chance instead of dramatic design, I moved immediately towards the doorway, taking one step inside the drawing room, breaking the barrier of their surroundings.
Stormie saw me first. His eyes widened and—throwing aside his shyness and awkward manner—let the love of his heart have free reign. He ran towards me and proclaimed, “I am so glad to see you, Ba! So glad!”
The others gathered round in a swell of hugs and well-wishes. “You act as if I walked through a window,” I said.
“ ’Twould be no more miraculous,” Henrietta said.
Occy brought me a chair. “Sit, sit.”
And so I let them fuss over me, and wallowed in the fact they were doing so because of my strength and not my infirmity.
As they talked I became one of them, no longer set apart. I realized how I had lived the entirety of my adult life with visions for my company instead of men and women. I had found the population of books gentle mates but hadn’t known there was any sweeter music than what they played to me.
But then Robert had stepped forth and had become more beloved than any book or prose. Robert had overcome my past and filled my soul with a complete satisfaction of all my wants.
I let the life of the room embrace me and felt a divine hand upon my shoulder. See what I can do for you? See what love can do for you?
Happy tears welled in my eyes as I realized how God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.
The world.
How it had gone on without me! I, a woman of forty years, who had spent all but a childhood in confinement, now found herself a visitor in a strange land.
For the visit down the stairs into the arms of my family was only the first of many visits—there, and beyond. I ventured forth slowly and carefully, and suffered a few setbacks as my body rebelled: But wait! You cannot take me out! Do not strain me so!
But eventually, the strain lessened and I gained strength in the presence of sun and air and people beyond my kin. And today . . .
Arabel, Flush, and I took a carriage ride to Regent’s Park. Had it been a year since we had last ventured here together with Stormie?
The sunlight shone through the trees, casting a green light through the branches, as if the sun carried the very essence of the leaves to the ground.
And suddenly . . . I wished so much to walk through a half-open gate along a shaded path that we stopped the carriage and got out and did just that.
I put both feet on the grass . . . what a strange feeling! So soft and movable, like padding placed there just for me.
“Be careful,” Arabel said, taking my arm. “You are uncertain.”
She was so wrong. I was very certain—if not physically, by the way my soul soared within the moment. I lifted my face towards the sound of the rustling leaves above and noticed that the tree providing me dear shade was a golden chain tree. “A laburnum,” I said aloud.
Arabel looked up, as if she would not have noticed otherwise. “The blossoms are lovely,” she said.
And suddenly, I knew I needed one for Robert. I reached upwards, but they were too high. “Help me pick one,” I said.
“Don’t be silly. You can’t reach it.”
“But I must.” To myself I added: for Robert. Robert always brought me flowers to celebrate our various anniversaries, even marking the day he came with Cousin Kenyon and did not see me years before. And in nine days we would commemorate our first May meeting—that day which made the world tip in my favour. His offerings were never flowers from a hothouse, but from his mother’s lovely garden.
The need to have a flower for Robert when he came to visit next became a quest that had to be fulfilled. “Help me, sister. I must have it!”
She tried to protest, but I gave her no choice as I stood upon my toes and reached out . . . stretched muscles long since stretched, brushed it with my fingers, and then—
“Got it!”
I opened my hand and found a few yellow blossoms pulled from the central pendent ste
m. Their waxy touch felt beyond this world, beyond real. I put them to my nose and breathed in the luscious vanilla scent.
“You only got a tiny sprig, a few blossoms. You can’t reach an entire cluster.”
Although I would have loved to take the entire tree as an offering to my dear beau, a few blossoms would be enough. In our situation they would have more effect than an entire bouquet.
“We should get back,” she said. “Papa might come home and find us gone and—”
A cloud fell upon the moment, causing my joy to turn gray. And then . . . in the instant it took to draw the bloom to my nose once again, I was shown a truth about love that made my knees wobble.
“Are you all right?” Arabel asked.
“I am fine,” I said as I willed my legs to remain strong. I needed a moment to let the truth that had thrown me to sink in. “I need to walk a bit.”
“But Papa—”
I ignored her and walked across the grass. I tried to grasp the truth that had rocked me, but it tried to hide just out of reach. . . .
I took another whiff of the flower and was brought to remember. With the simple plucking of the flower with the intent of making Robert happy, I had found happiness. That was the way love should work. Robert’s love made me feel happy and emancipated. Here I was, out in the world for the first time in far too long because of Robert’s love.
In sharp contrast came the cloud . . . thoughts of Papa’s love for me. His love consumed me like a shroud, cloaked me in anxiety, bathed me in fear of an unwitting transgression that would bring his displeasure. Being loved by Papa involved clutching my arms around myself in protection. Being loved by Robert allowed me to open my arms wide in joyful supplication.
Arabel called from the carriage. “Ba, we must not linger.”
I glanced back but did not wish to reenter the confines of the carriage. Not when I had entered this Garden of Eden and plucked for my love a token, proving to myself—and to him—that he was never far from my thoughts.