How Do I Love Thee? (5 page)

I had finally succumbed to his gentle but persistent pressure and agreed to meet Miss Mitford at London’s Diorama and Zoological Gardens. At that time in my life’s journey I still ventured into public on occasion, but the anticipation caused me immeasurable worry. Yet it was not the visit into nature that caused me consternation but the contact with this stranger. What would we say to each other? Would she like me? What recourse would I have if it did not go well?

As usual, my worries had made me ill. My heart beat with an alarming rhythm, and I paced my room all morning. Adding to my disquiet was anger—at myself. How could I feel at ease discussing all manner of intellectual subjects with scholars (albeit through letters far more than in person), yet spin myself into a web of anxiety at the thought of meeting a revered spinster woman who by all accounts was amusing, kind, and had interest in meeting
me
?

Yet upon meeting her . . . I was made ashamed of my fears. I was delighted to discover that like me, Miss Mitford did not partake of womanly chatter, but spoke of life and books and interesting literary figures she had met. The very evening before our meeting she had been introduced to the young poet Robert Browning, and the very next night was going to a dinner at Cousin John’s home—to which I had also been invited—at which Robert Wordsworth would be in attendance. I had been fighting my fear regarding this dinner for weeks, looking for excuses not to go, yet knowing that the chance to meet this famous writer would prove irresistible, even amid my debilitating shyness.

During our meeting, as Miss Mitford and I walked among the chimpanzees and giraffes, I found myself sharing my life story with her, completely unbidden and unplanned. My childhood at Hope End, my mother’s death, the idiosyncrasies of my family, my health, and my hopes and dreams of literary greatness fell into the fresh air between us and were nourished by her kind interest.

Burgeoned by the success of the day, the next night I did attend the dinner at Cousin John’s with Bro and with Miss Mitford also in attendance. I sat right next to Wordsworth, nearly fainting from the very thought of his proximity. And yet . . . he did not impress me as I had imagined he would. He was an old man, his eyes lacked fire, and his countenance was void of the animation I had expected of such a great man who had written words that sparked my very soul. It was rather disconcerting to have my image of him dashed.

Another literary genius in attendance, who proved to be of far more interest, was Walter Savage Landor. He was opinionated, impetuous, high-spirited, and entertained Bro and me with witty epigrams. I enjoyed his presence as much as his work. His recently published
Pentameron
possessed some pages that were too delicious to turn over. On the way home, elated by the evening, I realized I had never walked in the skies before; and perhaps never would again when so many stars were out. I continued to live on those memories. . . .

Memories.

Suddenly, the memory of that special night faded, and another memory intruded. The words I had shared with Bro returned.
I will die soon.
The impulsive remark elicited great regret. Who was I to say such a thing? Who was I to complain about my lot? I was alive, and though I was not well, I needed to accept the benefit of my condition and go forth—for Bro’s sake, and for his honour.

Yet my heart was not in it. Each breath required effort, each thought was pulled from my mind with force, and each daily task was attended to by rote and with little recognition or feeling. I went . . . on.

What little energy I owned was used to mask my inner desolation from others who did not need to add worry for me to their burdens. I held my complaints in check and created a façade that carefully separated my serene appearance from the turmoil and angst which lay within.

How I longed to fully
be
what I pretended to be. Although I doubted it was possible, I was determined to try.

But who was I? Was I what people thought of me? Or someone altogether different?

Although I wished to think otherwise, to most people I was “the invalid,” the middle-aged spinster who lay abed all day, rarely venturing out-of-doors. Added to that, I was the sister-in-mourning, a woman to be pitied. When people walked past this house, did they whisper such things to one another? “See that house there? The woman who lives there never comes out. Her brother drowned last year and she blames herself.”

I looked towards the window, as if the parties in question were on the street outside. The people of Torquay had no reason to think any more of me. And beyond that . . . what
more
was there? Of me?

I let the pen and paper renew its invitation.

First and foremost, I was a writer.
That
was my calling, my destiny, my mission. The undefined illnesses that plagued my body did not define me. My mind, my thoughts, my feelings, my creativity . . . those were the things that determined who I was to myself and to the world. Those were the things that I had shoved aside after Bro’s death, and even before. I needed to regain the stimulation of intellectual discussion, the passion of thought, the exhilaration of imagination. . . . My book
The Seraphim and
Other Poems
had been published in 1838, shortly before I moved to Torquay. I had been absent from London during the time when it had received its first response, its acclaim, however small. I had been set apart from its reality. Removed. Ostracized by circumstances beyond my control.

But no more.

I must reclaim the life I had once lived.

How?

I had to renew the correspondences which had previously brought me great joy and purpose. It was true that since becoming an adult I had not possessed a normal connection with anyone. The usual chatter of society bored me, and I was ill at ease in crowds. Only through letters was I able to sustain meaningful discourse with others of like mind. In most cases, they were men. Much older men. Men of learning and literature, such as Sir Uvedale Price and Hugh Stuart Boyd, both elderly scholars who miraculously treated me as a peer, far from equal, but a contemporary who was willing to learn. They gave my writing genuine criticism—which I encouraged. Although a good poet is one of God’s singers, it did not mean improvements could not, and should not, be achieved. If I only accepted accolades—whether the work be worthy or no—then I would be cheating the Almighty and revealing the sin of pride. Although I
could
be proud, I was not a cheater. I was also not a versifier as so many women were. I did not casually jot down stray verses that ambled through my thoughts. True poetry was sacred. It owned a dignity and sense of purpose, and as such, I strove to embrace those same traits as my own.

A few months earlier, in the midst of my mourning, I remembered Martin Luther had stated that a person’s entire life was a task set by God. The idea planted then now moved me towards action. I would try to please God, and please myself and others in the process.

Towards that end, I rang the bell, calling Crow to my side. “The pen, Crow, if you please? And paper and ink.”

Her smile was verification that it
was
time. “Anything else, Miss Elizabeth?”

“No. Thank you.”

She left the room, and I took up my pen to write to Mary.

And yet . . . my hand trembled. I set the pen aside and flexed my fingers, willing them to remember their duty to bring thought to paper. I grasped the pen again and willed my hand to obey.

It acquiesced, though tentative and not without a flutter to the script:
Dearest Mary . . .

It was a beginning.

Three months had passed since I had renewed my correspondence with Mary Mitford. I looked forward to her letters above all others, above even those of Papa, who had returned to London in December, leaving Arabella here in Torquay with Henrietta and me. Miss Mitford’s letters gave each day a new purpose as we discussed our work and families and . . . life. But there was more than her letters which brought me anticipation. Mary was sending me a very special present, one I had objected to most vociferously and ineffectually because of its value.

A dog.

He was due to arrive at any time and caused me to rise from my pillows on more than one occasion when I heard a cart stop out front.

As it did now. Crow, who was putting some clothes away in the bureau, glanced at me. “It’s just a dog, miss, which, if I be honest, I’m not too keen on getting. Dogs are dirty and smelly.”

She was right—they could be. But they could also be pleasant companions. “It’s good you’ve only been with me here in Torquay, Crow, for back in London, Henry has a bloodhound and a mastiff, and Occy has a terrier. Myrtle is the ugliest dog in all Christendom.” I did not mention that at one time I had tamed a squirrel and had been owner to multiple rabbits, a hen, and a poodle named Havannah, as well as my pony, Moses.

“If that many dogs be there, then I be glad I’m here,” she said, pushing the drawer shut.

“This is not just any dog, mind you,” I said. “He is the son of a champion spaniel, one Miss Mitford could have sold for twenty guineas. I know she needs the money and yet she is sending him to me.”

Crow looked skeptical. “A spaniel. How big is—?”

I heard a bark outside and my heart leapt. “He’s here!” There was a knock on the door. “Help me up!”

Crow helped me into the hallway. And then I saw him. A rambunctious six-month-old golden cocker spaniel. Henrietta bent down to meet him and he put his paws upon her knees, his tail wagging madly. How I wished I could have run down the stairs to greet him properly.

Crow held my arm, then looked up at me. “You look flushed, miss.”

“If so, it is his fault,” I said. “Come here, my little Flush. Come see me.”

The dog heard my voice and, after a moment’s hesitation, lumbered up the stairway. I knelt to greet him and for my effort received a thousand wet kisses.

It was love at first sight.

I looked at the envelope, stunned. I had not received a letter from Richard Horne since soon after Bro died. Now, ten months later . . .

I broke the seal, eager to reconnect with my peer. I absorbed the words and quickly realized how much I had missed his witty dialogue. But then my reading stopped. I held my breath and read the last phrase again:
I wondered if you were up to a collaboration? A drama where the hero would suffer
persecution from the hauntings of his soul.

“Yes, yes,” I said, surprising even myself. For I had always prided myself on working alone, letting no one else take credit—or blame—for my work. And yet, the theme was so timely as to be irresistible. And close to home. For in the past year I had certainly felt many hauntings of the soul. Now I could write about such things from true experience. The play could be about real situations, with real men and women talking aloud to each other, exploring real emotions. Joy and grief, a child, and perhaps a wedding . . .

I felt an inner stirring that made my blood flow fresh and vibrant through my body. It had been too long since I had felt such invigoration. Ideas vied for attention, each wanting a part in the project.

I lay back upon the sofa, pressing the letter to my chest. Dear, dear Richard. I knew he was making the offer half out of kindness and the wish to amuse my mind. But I did not object to his charity and found, if anything, it endeared me to him. He had written as if I were well, and that was exactly what I needed. I was tired of being the invalid. The worst had not happened—I had not died.

I repeated the phrase to myself, as if to cement it to the moment:
I had not died, and was not going to die.
Although I had once wished not to live, now . . . the faculty of living had emerged from under the crushing foot of grief. The poetical part of me had sprung to life again, and I felt it growing as freshly and strongly as if it had already been watered for many days.

I found the bell to call Crow but put it down before it made its announcement. No. I would not call her to retrieve my writing utensils for me. I looked to Flush, lying at my feet. “No, Flush. I will do it myself. And even better . . .”