Elizabeth’s first letter to Browning further cheered me. I had been concerned lest, with all the refreshment of pleasure and interest in life the man’s words might have brought her, she had perhaps become over-excited thereby, brought to an unhealthy access of sentiment. The dry terms of her answer, composed without any assistance but confided to me, were greatly reassuring. She spoke of her high respect for Browning’s own ventures into poetic composition, saluted him as a fellow-craftsmen, told him that he would remain in her everlasting debt if he would draw her attention to faults in her manner of composition – nothing of the dreamy palpitating stuff in which he had evidently indulged himself. The correspondence continued. I had pressing concerns of my own at that time, in the City, relative to my affairs in the West Indies, and to be candid I was not sorry that my dearest Ba seemed to have found someone who might unwittingly share the burden of emotional obligation to her that I had inescapably (if gladly) acquired.
So matters stood for a couple of months and I was more than content. Elizabeth had acquired a companion who might prove more durable than her poor much-loved brother, known to her as Bro, lost sailing off the Devon coast at the age of thirty-three, and one who was nearer at hand than the excellent Hugh Stuart Boyd and John Kenyon, the latter known to me since our days at Cambridge and Elizabeth’s benefactor and distant kinsman. Her letters to and from Browning, of which I was told nothing of substance, grew more frequent, but I saw no harm in that.
Then, in May of the same year, 1845, the two were to meet; he was to visit her at two o’clock in the afternoon of the 20th. I raised no objection; at that time I had none to raise; at two o’clock that day I was engaged in the City of London. I had left my Ba in her room as usual reclining on her sofa, surrounded by her simple furniture, most notably her beloved books on shelves built by her brothers, and with her spaniel, the well-behaved Flush, close beside her. As her father I could say to myself that, for all her large brown eyes and splendid thick dark hair, she was not what the world would have called beautiful. The black silk she wore at this season accentuated the pallor of her ivory complexion. She looked small and defenceless (she stood only an inch over five foot), eagerly desiring and yet deeply dreading the advent of the scoundrel* who had so artfully insinuated himself into the very springs of her being.
Before I departed, I counselled Elizabeth to remember that this young man, six years her junior, must be as apprehensive as she of the coming encounter, and that, whatever might betide, he ardently desired her welfare, and doubtless more. What else could I have said or done?
‘I see that Mr Browning’s visit was a success,’ I remarked some hours later as I took tea with Elizabeth in her room.
‘Oh yes, it was most pleasant and valuable,’ she replied from her seat on the sofa. (I occupied the armchair by prescriptive right.)
‘How did he impress you?’
‘He was most affable, and from the beginning there were no constraints. We had lively talk for something above an hour.’
‘Upon what topics?’ I asked.
‘Oh, a great many, from poetry to politics.’
‘Very likely. I was hoping you might particularize a little.’
‘Oh … ah … he renewed his affirmations of regard for some of the things I’ve written, especially … especially “A Dream of Exile” and “The Rime of the Duchess May” and others. Truly, he was most … I could not have wished for a more …’
‘No lady,’ said I with a smile, my hands on my knees, ‘is on oath when her father questions her on her conversations with an eligible young gentleman; indeed, she need say nothing at all. But, my dearest Ba, you and I have always been closely attached; pray do a little to indulge the curiosity of an old man and a loving parent. No doubt Mr Browning did converse with you of this and that; but what did you make of him, in what frame of mind do you look forward to his next visit, if there is to be one, did you like him?’ And Flush, at her side as always, raised his dark liquid eyes to hers as if to say that he, too, would have welcomed some information upon this head.
She looked at me for a few moments in silence, and it was not hard to imagine something of the battle of emotions that raged within her. Then she rose to her feet and held out her arms to me, and we embraced; I remember thinking how thin her small frame was, like a sheaf of ropes. Urging Flush to make room, she drew me down to sit close to her on the sofa and took my hand in hers.
‘Dearest papa,’ she burst out in her high voice, almost as thin in its way as her figure, ‘Mr Browning is such an impressive, inspiring man, he has quite bowled me over with his ardour and strength. I swear that within a minute of his arrival I was in continuous suspense to see what he should say next – I learnt what it meant to be hanging on someone’s lips. He carried within him so passionate a flame that I felt almost scorched by it,’ etc., etc.
‘I gather from this that you do wish to see him again,’ I interjected when I thought it timely.
‘I am quite set on it’, and she went on without pausing for breath, ‘and this, all this, from a great poet, many say the greatest of our age!’
Soon I had seen and heard enough for the time being. In a light tone I counselled the dear creature not to allow her thoughts to proceed too fast, to beware of placing an extravagant hope upon the sequel to a single brief meeting, and to consider that Mr Browning must have many other concerns in his life than an occasional visit to a fellow-rhymer, however highly regarded. When she seemed calmer I left her. I had some thinking of my own to do, and a hope hardly less extravagant than any of hers to consider.
For despite the very great depth and strength of my fatherly love, and the warm affection in which I had always held her, there was no gainsaying but that Ba’s feelings for me, however welcome and however takingly expressed, were inappropriate in their degree. To put the matter in less abstract terms, she was nearly forty; while delicate of constitution she had the inner power of endurance shown by many other members of her sex;* as just demonstrated she was by no means indifferent to male charm; the isolation in which she lived was fully explicable but unnatural. To put it coarsely and more shortly still, she needed a man.
Perhaps Robert Browning was destined to be that man. For the time being I tried to look no further into the future. Mr Browning’s letters continued to arrive at 50 Wimpole Street at an accelerating rate, and so did he in person for strictly delimited weekly visits. Dear Ba looked forward to each with what I may perhaps term a steady crescendo of expectation. She seemed happy. Her health was visibly better than it had been for years. All the same, I knew that there was more than a salubrious concern in her expressed desire, expressed indeed in previous years but never so pressingly as now, to winter out of England, in Malta, Pisa, Madeira. I would listen to any suggestion. Not having it in my nature to be either inquisitive or effusive, I was content meanwhile to allow matters to take their course. Nevertheless I knew my daughter was aware that, at least in principle, I was not unfavourably disposed to her association with the man who admired her so extravagantly, though I did wonder a little at not being invited to meet him.
II
That September, I was dining at the Reform Club, to which I had been elected a few years previously, when I was delighted to recognize my old friend John Kenyon at a nearby table. We arranged to take a glass of claret afterwards in the gallery on the first floor. His large, stout figure was soon seated opposite me. A half-bottle decanter of the wine arrived and we filled and raised our glasses.
After we had exchanged one or two trifles of family news, he asked after Elizabeth, with whom as I have said he was remotely connected, his great-grandmother having been the sister of Elizabeth’s great-grandfather. Kenyon had been most kind and helpful to her in the past, encouraging her in her poetical work, visiting her frequently and introducing her to Wordsworth, an old man then though not yet Poet Laureate, and to Miss Mary Russell Mitford, authoress of that famous book, Our Village.
‘Let us hope its absence continues,’ he said.
‘Indeed we must.’
‘To make that happy sequel more likely, it’s much to be desired that she goes somewhere more clement than England for the winter.’
‘Yes, Malta seems for the moment to be the favourite, at your suggestion, I’m informed. As I said to the dear girl’s aunt the other day, if she does go I’ll consider very seriously a visit to Jamaica.’
‘Your and my ancestral home.’
‘Just so. And the seat of substantial business interests of mine, at which a closer look might be valuable.’
I was about to elaborate this point when it was borne in upon me that Kenyon was hardly listening. His attention seemed to have settled on something or someone at the far end of the gallery where we sat. What it was I could not see. Turning back to me he said, his kindly florid face showing animation,
‘Elizabeth still receives letters from the poet Browning and exchanges letters with him.’
‘So she does,’ said I, somewhat amused at the confidence with which he made this statement.
‘But when you and I last talked, you and he had yet to meet.’
‘That is still a pleasure deferred.’
‘It need be deferred no longer, I think, or perhaps only for a few more minutes. Robert Browning has this moment joined a small company up there. He’s not the chap to stand on ceremony, and I’ve no doubt he would welcome the chance of making your acquaintance.’
‘My dear Kenyon, I hardly feel—’
‘Surely a golden opportunity, here on neutral ground.’
‘I must ask you to excuse me. But I will, if I may, satisfy my curiosity about how the fellow looks. The cut of his jib, as I believe it’s called. Which is he?’
‘He’s not in our view, but he took the chair nearest to the corner, facing this way. A small man, dark, impeccably dressed.’
Kenyon looked at me in some wonderment as I rose to my feet and strolled away along the gallery. I had very little idea of what had sent me on this slightly whimsical errand, until for a matter of a few seconds, and for the first and last time, I had sight of Robert Browning. His glance at me was brief, without hostility and without interest. Before I was past him his face grew lively at some remark from one of his party and he laughed and quickly answered. I moved on at the same pace and had soon completed the circuit back to my seat.
‘You saw him, then?’ asked Kenyon, alert for my answer.
‘Yes. As clearly as I see you.’
‘And you’re satisfied he has no horns sprouting from his forehead.’
‘Completely.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But he has a very dark complexion, didn’t you think?’
‘I suppose it might be called that.’ Perhaps I spoke somewhat mechanically.
‘So much so that I’ve heard it said he has Creole or coloured blood.’
‘What an absurd suggestion.’
‘Is it not, of one of the most cultivated men one is likely to meet? If required I could testify that, on the best authority, there’s no truth in the tale. But, by an odd coincidence, it is true that Browning’s family, like ours, has connections with the West Indies. More particularly, his paternal grandmother came from a family with extensive plantations and many slaves in St Kitts in the Leeward Islands, on the far side of the Caribbean. You must know that Browning senior, Robert’s father, became a clerk at the Bank of England and is far from wealthy, though he seems content to support his son’s poetry. The son and his sister grew up in New Cross, south of the … But whatever is the matter, my dear fellow? Are you unwell?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I said as best I could. ‘You’re aware of my asthmatic tendency – I fear I’m suffering a mild attack, nothing for serious concern … perhaps the ventilation in this part of the building …’
‘Of course we must get you home at once. I’ll summon the porter and get him to go out and secure a cab to convey us.’
Over the next few days, giving out that I was indisposed, I kept to my room when at 50 Wimpole Street, leaving the house from time to time to make certain inquiries. At the end of this period, about the middle of the month, I went to Elizabeth’s room about midday, having first made certain we should not be interrupted.
She greeted me amiably enough, though with something less than the warmth I had long grown to expect. ‘Dearest papa! Are you quite recovered from your disorder?’
I thanked her for her solicitude, assured her I was myself again, and thereafter came straight to the point. ‘I regret I must inform you, Elizabeth, that it will not after all be possible for you to spend the coming winter abroad.’
From her reception of that announcement, I could see easily enough that its drift came as no great surprise to her, though her disappointment was as evident. ‘May I know your reason for this decree?’
‘I am not bound to furnish a reason, but I will do so. My advice is that the discomfort and strain of the double journey would probably more than undo any beneficial effect of a few weeks in a warmer climate, not to speak of the various dangers attendant upon any foreign travel and sojourn.’
‘I am willing to take that risk.’
‘I am unwilling that a daughter of mine should do so.’
‘I am of age, papa.’
‘While you reside here and remain unmarried you will continue to be bound by your father’s wishes.’
‘Those conditions may not obtain for ever,’ she said with a show of resolution.
‘Indeed they may not. Is this a warning that they’re about to end?’
She hesitated, then shook her head firmly but with despondency. ‘No.’
‘In that case I’ll repeat that I sincerely wish things could have been otherwise touching your visit abroad, and I bid you good day.’
‘Oh, papa.’ With one of her nimble movements, Elizabeth barred my path to the door. ‘Please, dear papa, will you not be open with me and tell me the whole truth?’
Now I hesitated. ‘I very well remember,’ I said, ‘discussing with Mr Kenyon, your friend Mrs Jameson and yourself the possibility of your wintering on the Continent, this on more than one occasion, and your taking my side against the proposal, declaring you were just as well off in your own warm room, and the upheaval would not be worth while. Suddenly, the upheaval has become worth while. Why?’
She made no answer, but her cheeks flushed.
‘When you’re ready to answer that question,’ I said as gently as I could, ‘I will answer yours, and speak plain. I can only hope that day soon comes.’
I should never have given that promise. To keep it would have been to divulge my secret, and that I could never have done, not to Ba. Sometimes now I wish devoutly I could have brought myself to speak plain; more often I thank my stars I had the sense to keep my own counsel. But I must not indulge in idle fancies.
To my surprise, far from being dashed by my steadfast performance of my duty in at least forbidding her Continental visit, Elizabeth seemed cheerful and philosophical, content as always with being at home, surrounded by her family. That at any rate was what I told myself; I told myself many falsely comforting things. I find it almost impossible to believe that over all those months nothing of significance took place; nothing, that is, of which I was directly aware, except the abduction of Flush by ruffians and his eventual expensive recovery. The threatened loss of a dog! To be sure, I should have been greatly dashed if the attempt had succeeded, but there was a disparity between this and what I eventually did suffer so great as to be almost comical.
III
Early in the following August, everything changed, or rather, much was brought to light. I had found Robert Browning’s continued regular visits to m
y daughter tolerable while they remained of specified duration. That day he overstayed his time and overstepped the mark. In a flash he shattered the protective shell in which I had encased myself. As soon as he had gone I hurried to Elizabeth’s room in a towering rage, but the rage was directed inwards. No truer word was ever spoken than that there is none so blind as he who will not see.
Without preliminary I exclaimed, ‘It appears, Ba, that that man has spent the whole day with you.’
‘But papa, there was a storm, as surely you noticed. Mr Browning stayed only until the rain had stopped.’
‘Confound the rain. To the devil with the rain. This reckless behaviour is insupportable. I will not have it. It must cease. Do you understand me?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said my daughter. ‘Is it your meaning that Mr Browning is never to visit me here again?’
With renewed warmth, and no hesitation, I retorted, ‘It is, it is. He is not to cross this threshold while I live, not for a hundred storms. He must never …’
‘Dearest papa, you are overwrought. Come, let me sit you down here and make you see you’re with one that loves you and will take care of you. Now what are these imaginings? For you seem to think Mr Browning is a sort of demon. Yet it’s not so long since you seemed to tolerate his visits quite willingly and even, I thought, to welcome his addresses to me. Something has happened to change your mind. I beg you, tell your Ba what it is.’
‘I cannot. Nothing has happened. But you are never to see that reprobate Browning again.’
Complete Stories Page 39