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; [2] 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.
‘Elizabeth is well,’ I told Kenyon in answer to his inquiry. ‘Her cough is always diminished in the warmer weather, indeed this summer it appears to have vanished completely.’
‘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 my 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.’
‘Mr Browning is an honourable English gentleman with none but the highest notions of what is right and proper. Or have you heard some lying tale to the contrary?’
‘Nothing of that sort,’ I had to answer. ‘He is . . . he’s simply not fit.’
‘You refer presumably to his lack of a personal fortune.’
‘You know there’s very little that could be of less moment to me than any such consideration. In itself, that is. But the consequence of his lack of means must be that he lacks the sensibility required of him in his dealings with a personage such as yourself.’
‘I can assure you that Mr Browning yields to no one where sensibility is concerned.’
‘He attended no university.’
‘His wealth of knowledge would challenge any who have. And since when was attendance of a university a guarantee of sensibility?’
‘He is six years your junior.’
‘Oh, stuff. Mama was four years older than you. Tell me the truth, father; why have you taken so strongly and so suddenly against poor Mr Browning? I remember so well how happy you were on my account when he first appeared.’
‘That was before . . . I will no longer permit his visits. Oh, Ba,’ I burst out, ‘pay heed to what I say as never before. I beg of you, be guided by me. I don’t know what you and he are to each other, and I swear to you I don’t wish to know, but let there be no more of it.’ I stared at her and spoke with all the earnestness of which I am capable, ‘In the name of God, my daughter, banish the man Robert Browning from your life.’
Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment I thought I had won. Then Elizabeth turned away from me and said in level tones, ‘I will not. Robert and I love each other. If God is to be brought into the matter, let Him part Robert and me, for nothing human will. If you try to prevent his entry into this house, I will leave it forthwith and trust to Mr Kenyon or Mr Boyd to help me. Now please go.’
So ended my last conversation with Elizabeth on this subject, in fact our last conversation worthy of the name in this world. On Saturday, 19th September, 1846, she left my house for ever, having a week earlier been married without my knowledge to Robert Browning at St Marylebone Parish Church. Soon the couple, taking Flush with them, were in Paris. Three weeks later they had reached Italy.
I suppose I had all along regarded it as inevitable, but to have such a thing happen, however clearly foreseen, is utterly different. But what else could I have done, knowing what I knew?
Let me set in order what I knew and if need be whence I knew and know it.
1. Robert Browning is of very dark complexion. (Kenyon’s phrase; my own observation.
)
2. It has been said in London that he is of Creole or coloured blood. (Kenyon.)
3. His ancestry includes a West Indian grandmother. (Kenyon.)
4. The style in which he expresses himself, while correct grammatically, is fundamentally different from that of a true-born Englishman, not merely in his choice of words, but in his way of putting them together and their movement in his verses. (My own reading of the last-named and memory of what I heard of his first letter to Ba, also my glimpse of its cover.)
5. Mine is a slave-owning family domiciled in Jamaica for many years, indeed Elizabeth was the first for some generations to have been born in England.
6. I am myself of dark colouring.
7. Elizabeth is indeed of pale complexion, but there are distinct olive or sallow tints in that pallor. (Witness my personal pet-name for her.)
8. No West Indian person can be certain of his or her pedigree.
9. By a phenomenon known, I believe, as atavism, plants and animals have a tendency to reproduce earlier types. (My own observations in Jamaica.)
10. The laws of heredity are at present not well understood, but a child will often resemble its grandfather or grandmother rather than either of its immediate parents. (Common knowledge.)
It surely stands to reason and to common experience, requiring no further argument, that the presence of Creole blood on both sides of a union must redouble to an incalculable degree the chances of Creole blood in the issue.
No doubt in days to come the question of the colour of a human being’s skin will seem no more and no less interesting than the colour of eyes or hair. Here in England in the reign of Queen Victoria, those days must appear impossibly far off. By the very same consideration, how could I tell my daughter that the combined heredities of herself and Browning might – very likely would not, but still might – produce black offspring? How could I go so far as to say I had a reason for trying to forbid their further association? The result must have been not only to destroy Ba’s love for me, as the bearer of the worst of bad tidings, but also to place at risk her prospects of happiness. The latter I could not face. Better for all three concerned that I should continue to appear to my dearest Ba, and perhaps in time to the world, the very epitome of a selfish, obstinate, unreasoning tyrant. That is the part I must continue to play until my death. I resolve to do so and to keep my secret.
Dear Illusion Page 39