How Do I Love Thee? (12 page)

“At fifty-five . . . God would need to produce a mighty miracle.”

Even at thirty-six, a miracle would be necessary. Especially since there was no beau in my life, had never been a beau, and would never be a beau. This was my lot. When I first grew ill as a young woman, I never dreamed twenty years would pass me by.

Suddenly, Mary’s face crumpled, and she began to sob anew. “Oh dear Father . . . I will miss him so.”

Fathers. And daughters. The complexities of the connection were not easily understood—nor maneuvered.

Mary was allowed to stay with us, and after an evening spent reading to each other, was comfortably ensconced in a small bedroom. There had been many tears throughout the day and she was in much need of sleep.

I too could have used sleep, but I could not succumb—as yet. There was a nightly ritual which must—

I heard a tap upon my door. I looked up from my reading and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was two minutes until nine, which meant . . .

“Come in, Papa.”

The door opened and he entered, his Bible under his arm. I rose and moved to my place by the sofa. He took my hand and helped me to my knees before kneeling at my side. He groaned a bit at the effort, but I knew it would be the last complaint I would hear.

Without preamble he set the Bible on the cushion in front of us and opened it to his choice of passage for the evening. “I will read tonight from the Psalms. Chapter sixty-two, verses five through eight.” He cleared his throat. “ ‘My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation is from him. He only is my rock and my salvation: he is my defence; I shall not be moved. In God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God. Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us.’ ”

It was not like Papa to read verses of comfort from the Psalms, for his verse choices were prone to passages that offered moral lessons he wanted me to apply to my life. But today’s verses . . .

I risked a glance in his direction. Was he moved by Mary’s loss? Was he seeking comfort for his own mortality? Was he thinking of how I would feel when he passed on?

He did not acknowledge my gaze and reverently closed the book, placed one hand upon it, bowed his head, and began to pray aloud. I liked that he did not pray out of a book, but simply, in a flow of words from his heart.

I was mesmerized by his mellow baritone, the warmth of his body so close to mine, the strength of his presence. And once again I was moved by the fact that each evening he chose me—and me alone—as a partner in his prayers. What would I ever do without him?

I felt new tears sting as I remembered Mary’s loss. Of all his children, I loved Papa best. I alone heard the fountain within the rock and I alone struggled towards him through the stones of the rock.

And though it was not
done
I unclasped my hands and slipped one of them around Papa’s arm. His only acknowledgment was a slight pause between one word and the next. But he did not tell me to remove it.

And so . . . we prayed. And I added a silent prayer of my own, giving God thanks for the blessing of my father.

F
IVE

I put the most recent copy of
The Athenaeum
down with disgust. “They are completely unfair, for he is a genius.”

“Who is a genius?” Papa asked. He had brought the periodical to me and sat at the fire, reading the daily newspaper.

“Robert Browning,” I said. “He just opened a play,
A Blot in the
‘Scutcheon.’
”

Papa made a face. “I do not think the title appealing.”

“Appealing or no, I am certain it did not deserve the review it received.” I lifted the copy to read aloud. “ ‘If to pain and perplex were the end and aim of tragedy, Mr. Browning’s poetic melodrama would be worthy of admiration, for it is a very puzzling and unpleasant piece of business. The acts and feelings of the characters are abhorrent.’ ” I set the page upon my lap. “He does not deserve such a scathing assessment.”

“Perhaps he does. You have not seen the play.”

“I do not need to see it to know that its contents cannot be this detestable. Although I never saw him in my life, do not know him even by correspondence, the truth is—and the world should know the truth—it is easier to find a more faultless writer than a poet of equal genius.”

“But unfortunately genius does not always incur success.”

He spoke the truth. “So which do you suggest poets pursue, Papa? Faultless writing hoping for the good review, or genius?”

“Genius for genius’ sake may find only a small audience. It depends on the goal: reaching the masses or grasping genius for the sake of the challenge.” He lowered his paper. “Which do you aspire to, Ba?”

It was a good question. I had not had any book published since 1838, the year Bro and I moved to Torquay. . . . “I wish to have my work appreciated.”

“By whom? Other poets or the woman or man reading in their drawing room on a cold evening?”

“Both,” I said.

“ ’Tis not always possible,” Papa said.

Unfortunately, I knew
that
to also be true.

Cousin John rose, his head shaking in frustration. “But I do not wish to have one of your sisters at my dinner party. It is you who would benefit from being there with Wordsworth, you who would add to the discussion. He has asked to come visit you twice, you know. And Robert Browning read some of your work in
The Athenaeum
and also wanted to come and—”

I felt panic rise. “But—”

John held up a hand. “I told them it was not possible.” He looked at me over his glasses. “Although it should be.”

I knew him to be right. To have these literary notables wish to see
me
and yet be unable to summon the strength of body, and mind, and emotions . . . In many ways I might as well have been in a wilderness, or a hermitage, or a convent, or a prison, as in my room. Yet knowing the condition of my setting and being able to escape from it . . . I could do no more than acknowledge the one and grieve the impossibility of the other.

John sighed. “But back to the dinner party at hand. As dear as your sisters are, they do not possess the breadth of knowledge that entices dynamic conversation.”

I did not know what to say. I appreciated his compliment—without being unkind to Henrietta and Arabel. He was generous to continue his invitations. I was sorely tempted and, moreover, desired to go in so many ways. And yet . . . it was impossible. Although there was no physical lock keeping me at home, there was a lock that was just as formidable as iron, keeping me from venturing
out
. The lock was invisible, untouchable, and unexplainable to those who carried on normal lives beyond the walls of our home. They could not understand how I could ever be content. And so I had stopped trying to explain it. For I knew if I complained of my lot to Cousin John he would vehemently come to my defence and incite a royal ranting regarding the unfairness and unfathomable nature of my home imprisonment. He may have been Papa’s cousin, but that did not mean the two men agreed—about much. If I had given John leave, he would have fought for my freedom with slashing words and cutting arguments.

That I, a suffering damsel, did not wish to be saved by his gallant actions . . .

John paced back and forth, becoming agitated. I needed to calm him. “I assure you, this home that you take to be a gaol is a place teeming with arts and literature. I am not oblivious to the world.” I thought of an example and spotted the basket next to the sofa. “I read the latest magazines. I have read every issue of
Punch
since it came out two years ago.”

“I shall get you a commendation from the queen.”

He mocked me. But speaking of the queen . . . “In the six years she’s been on the throne, Her Majesty has had a tremendous effect on the arts. I approve of the step away from its past brazen nature, into art revealing a more respectable theme. Even I have been affected. Have you not noticed that my poems contain a more optimistic tone?”

“They are still consumed with death and dying.”

I raised a finger to make a point. “But within the death is a shred of hope, and the existence of good amid the evil. I have a new volume coming out at the beginning of next year. In it, you will see.”

He did not respond but plucked a dead leaf from a philodendron and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ve asked you to hear Mendelssohn play, and asked you to go to the theatre with me, Ba. You would so enjoy—”

“I do enjoy such things, cousin—in my own way. I am well informed as to the best plays in town, even though Papa forbids both theatre and opera from our experience. I know their story lines, their successes, and their failures. For instance, I know that William Charles Macready is making strides toward supporting new English drama. I heard he produced and starred in Robert Browning’s play
Stafford
, and Lord Bulwer-Lytton’s
Lady of
Lyons
and
Richelieu
. And I know the difference in styles between the actors Kemble and Kean.” I thought of something else that might repress his worries. “What do you think of the new invention, the daguerreotype?”

“The . . . ?” He looked confused for but a moment, then nodded. “Nothing will ever take the place of a painted portrait.”

My brothers shared this view. “I agree that a painting has the advantage of color and style, but think of a man sitting down in the sun and having his facsimile appear as he is at that moment; a slice of time captured for all eternity.”

“They have to be kept under glass; they are very delicate.”

“Is not a painting delicate and hung in safekeeping on a wall?”

He put on his grumbled look. “ ’Tis not the same.”

“Exactly!” I said. “What also excites me is that the artist attempts with the visual what I attempt to do with words: stop time, create a moment, and celebrate the process.”

He studied me, and I could tell he was forming an opinion. “These daguerreotypes cannot be reproduced. How have you seen—?”

“That I have not seen does not mean I cannot appreciate.”

He nodded, but his lifted eyebrow revealed his belief that he had won the argument.

No. I would make him concede the point that I was attuned to the world, even here, separate from it. I thought of something else that might sway him. “Did you know that I correspond regularly with Benjamin Haydon?”

“The artist?”

I nodded. “Mary arranged for Arabel and Sette to visit his studio where they saw his portrait of Wordsworth. They were so delighted with it, and told Mr. Haydon how much I would enjoy seeing it, that he had it sent here in a cab, for my personal viewing.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “He sent the portrait here?”

Finally, I had impressed him. “We have been corresponding ever since.”

“You’ve met him, then?”

“No, no. He calls me his ‘invisible friend,’ but his letters are delightful. You know I prefer correspondence to actual encounter.” A tidbit came to mind that would entice him. “Did you know he once was smitten with Caroline Norton?” I did not delve deeper into the gossip I had heard from the artist but secretly enjoyed hearing anything about this poetic rival whose success surpassed my own.