How Do I Love Thee? (20 page)

The pragmatism of my nature intruded to ask
In what way?

But instead of giving me an answer from within, I found my hand breaking free of the frozen moment and moving of its own accord to the drawer in my desk where I had placed . . .

My fingers touched the letter, and oddly, I had the distinct feeling that the letter touched my fingers in return—the softest graze, a kiss, barely there, and too soon gone.

Ridiculous
, I thought. It was but a letter. My life was replete with letters. Why did this one seem different?

With a shake of my head I forced logic into the moment—and immediately regretted its entry. I mentally recanted, longing to regain that sweet breath of reverie that had been held with such exquisite delicacy.

But it was gone and I could do nothing but mourn its passing. Would I ever experience such a moment again?

The clock on the mantel relentlessly announced the passing of more moments, leading to more, and more.

Whatever slice of the sublime had occurred was now gone from this reality. But it would never be fully gone from my memory. Although I would be hard-pressed to ably recount it, I knew I would never truly forget the awe of its pleasure. It was as though I had been allowed to glimpse the face of the Almighty. I knew someday I would feel that way again. Even now, I longed for it and anticipated it as I had never awaited anything before.

I looked at the letter from Robert Browning. It looked no different than other letters I received from other correspondents, from other . . . men. Although its opening line had filled my need for praise, I had received others just as complimentary, and from poets I admired with equal intensity as I admired Mr. Browning.

But something was indeed different. There was only one way to determine what that was. . . .

This is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write, whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius and there a graceful and natural end of the thing: since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration—perhaps even, as a loyal fellow-craftsman should try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of hereafter! But nothing comes of it all, so into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living poetry of yours.

I stopped and let his words linger like a comforting shawl against the cold of January. That he had attempted to give criticism—which would have been welcome indeed from a poet such as he—but had been moved beyond a cutting apart to a welcoming in . . . There was no greater compliment than to know that my work had touched someone, had accessed an inner place, and had sparked emotion.

Wanting, needing more, I read on:

I can give a reason for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought—but in this addressing myself to you, your own self, and for the first time, my feeling rises altogether. I do, as I say, love these books with all my heart—and I love you too. Do you know I was once not very far from seeing—really seeing you? Mr.Kenyon said to me one morning, ‘Would you like to see Miss Barrett?’ Then he went to announce me, then he returned. You were too unwell. And now it is years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if I had been close, so close, to some world’s wonder in chapel or crypt, only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some slight, so it now seems, slight and just-sufficient bar to admission, and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousand of miles, and the sight was never to be! Well, these Poems were to be—and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself.

Yours ever faithfully,
Robert Browning

He had come to visit me?

When?

He said ‘years ago’ . . .

I tried to remember the occasion but could find only the vaguest of memories, of Cousin John telling me that Browning wanted to meet me. As had Wordsworth, and the critic Chorley, and Richard Horne, and, and . . .

I could have grown a large head at such kind attention and the interest of my peers but for the utter terror spurred by the very thought of such meetings. To think of Mr. Browning, standing outside this very house, waiting for John to return with an invitation.

“I sent him away.”

My words cut through the silence with their surprising accusation. I answered with a silent response:
I send everyone away.

But . . . what if Robert Browning would appear on this very day? If Cousin John rapped upon my door and said,
“Mr. Browning is downstairs and
he would like to see you,”
would I let him in? Or would this dreaded, awful, annoying fear of meeting another face-to-face once again grab control and forbid my yearning for connection its chance?

This letter, and its intimate glimpse into the heart and mind of Mr. Browning, was an extension of his hand towards mine, a gesture of introduction, an . . . opening of the door between us. Upon this recognition, I knew a decision was being placed before me: Should I push my door ajar and let the
idea
of a meeting gain a breath of new air?

My heart pounded as the reckless thought took root. Before it was snuffed out by habit or convention, I drew a piece of stationery close and began my reply:
Thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart. You
meant to give me pleasure by your letter—and even if the object had not been answered, I
ought still to thank you. But it is thoroughly answered. Such a letter from such a hand!

I sat back, looking at the words. Were they too forward?

Keep it about the writing.

Yes, yes. That was the proper direction.

Boldly, I left the opening paragraph as it was, then wrote that I would appreciate any comments or criticisms he had to offer. Poet to poet. Professional to professional.

But then, before I thought enough to stop my pen, I found my words addressing our near-meeting:

Is it indeed true that I was so near to the pleasure and honour of making your acquaintance? And can it be true that you look back upon the lost opportunity with any regret? But, you know, if you had entered the “crypt,” you might have caught cold, or been tired to death, and wished yourself “a thousand miles off,” which would have been worse than traveling them. It is not my interest however to put such thoughts in your head about its being “all for the best,” and I would rather hope (as I do) that what I lost by one chance I may recover by some future one. Winters shut me up as they do dormouses’ eyes: in the spring, we shall see. I am so much better that I seem turning round to the outward world again.

I sat back, stunned at my admission, stunned at my suggestion that we
could
meet, and might meet in the spring.
We shall see.

Indeed.

Although the words within my letter had come from my hand (and thus from my mind and heart), to see
I seem turning round to the outward world
again
in blackened ink, ascribed to be real, addressed to this man I had never met . . .

Was
I ready to venture into the world again after a half lifetime away? My hand told me so.

And yet I knew too well the gulf between intent and action, logic and achievement. I could want to be like others from morning to night, yet until I actually took steps to succeed . . . it was like talking to the wind.

When
was
the last time I had smelled the fresh air? Touched a tree’s leaf? Heard the laughter of children playing hoops or tag? When was the last time I had felt cobblestones under my slippered feet, or felt the sun upon my face?

My memories sped in the reverse, settling upon the outing in my wheelchair when Flush was stolen. September. Of what year?

1843. It was newly 1845. Sixteen months had passed since I had been out of my room and into the world.

But remember what happened last time. Flush was stolen. If you go out again . . .

No, Flush’s abduction was the excuse, not the reason for my selfimposed hermitage. The truth? Nothing since then had been strong enough to propel me
out.
Still to answer was why had this letter shined a light upon my darkness. Why had this letter ignited in me a desire for something different?

I did not know, and was a little uncertain I wanted a true answer. For I enjoyed the sensation and was content—for now—to live in the presence of this moment and leave the future its . . . grand possibilities?

I laughed at the very thought of it.

Time had passed. I was not certain how much time, but the light in my room had changed from white to amber. And still I held the letter in my hand—my response to Robert Browning.

The pluck I had shown earlier had left me, and doubt had taken its place. Perhaps it was not wise to respond to Mr. Browning at all.

And yet . . . I corresponded with many male scholars and literary figures. I had never felt the slightest trepidation writing to other authors, painters, or intellectuals. Why was I hesitating to send this simple response to Mr. Browning?

My gaze fell upon his portrait on the wall, then quickly sought the others I had placed there: Wordsworth, Carlyle, Martineau. And suddenly, I knew—I just knew—that the only portrait I had truly wished to display was Mr. Browning’s. Had I displayed the other portraits to disguise my true desire to have Robert’s delightful countenance on display?

Robert?

I shook my head against the impropriety, the audacity . . .

“Mr. Browning,” I said aloud, in an attempt to make amends.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Wilson was watering the ivy in the window box. I had forgotten she was there. I looked down at the letter in my hands. My own cursive reiterated the name I had just expressed:
Mr. Browning.

Wilson nodded at the letter. “Do you wish for me to give that to Miss Henrietta to post?”

That was my usual way. Since my sister went out on errands daily, I always gave her my letters.

Wilson craned her neck to see the addressee. Upon seeing it, she glanced at the portrait on the wall. “Oh.”

Oh, what?
I held the letter close to my breast and felt myself blush.

This was absurd. It was just a simple letter. To a colleague.

But then Wilson nodded in a knowing manner and whispered, “Don’t worry ’bout a thing, Miss Elizabeth.” She made a locking motion at her mouth, then held out her hand.

Surprised into action, I relinquished the letter into her charge.

She slipped it into the pocket of her dress and headed for the stairs.
Then she stopped and returned to me. “Do you wants me to check the return mail every day to see if . . .” She nodded towards the portrait again.

I was suddenly appalled and nearly snatched the letter back. Intrigue was not for me. It was utterly against my character.

Perhaps seeing the panic in my face, Wilson said, “Never mind,” and hurried down the stairs.

But what she’d said lingered. Return post? It
was
my desire that Mr. Browning respond to
my
letter.

And then you will respond to him. And then he . . .

What was I doing? What had begun?

By the fitful beating of my heart I knew that something had been set in motion. Something out of the ordinary, something remarkable. Something exhilarating and . . . and . . .

Life changing.

I pressed my hands to my head, both encouraging its fervent shaking
no-no-no
and rebelling against its negativity.

Why couldn’t I change? Why couldn’t this one letter be the beginning of something . . . something . . .

New.

At the word’s arrival into my consciousness, I froze.

New? What was
new
? The word itself—though simple in design—was foreign to me, to my very thinking. I did not deal with anything
new
but wallowed in the tried-and-true, that which existed now and had always
been
.
New
involved change, and I did not change, my life did not change, my family did not change. We existed on the plane of what was, what is, and never ventured in thought or action into what was yet to be.

What was new?

The image of Wilson, bustling through the snowy streets of London, my letter to Robert Browning clutched in her mittened hand . . .

Run faster!

I gasped at the thought. What was happening to me? What was so different about this letter compared to all the hundreds I had written before?

I closed my eyes and let my mind try to encircle the emotions that seemed scattered like naughty sheep on a hillside. Deliberately I drew them close until there seemed some semblance of containment. Once I had them within my influence, once they were gathered, I looked into their faces and recognized a commonality in their gaze.

Expectation.