How Do I Love Thee? (23 page)

I returned to my letter:

You are not to think—whatever I may have written or implied—that I lean either to the philosophy or affectation which beholds the world through darkness instead of light and speaks of it wailingly. Now, may God forbid that it should be so with me. I am not despondent by nature—and after a courage of bitter mental discipline and long bodily seclusion, I come out with two learnt lessons (as I sometimes say and oftener feel): the wisdom of cheerfulness and the duty of social intercourse. Anguish has instructed me in joy, and solitude in society. It has been a wholesome and not unnatural reaction. And altogether, I may say that the earth looks the brighter to me in proportion to my own deprivations: the laburnum trees and rose trees are plucked up by the roots, but the sunshine is in their places, and the root of the sunshine is above the storms. What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement!

I stopped writing, and once again sat in amazement at how I could write to him in a captured moment, without looking up, without even noticing my pen moving from paper to inkwell and back again.

I was done talking about me. It was time to address Robert’s view of life. I had the feeling—nearly a knowing—that he had not experienced any true sorrow, any trial that could push one to the edge of living or the need to escape. With only joy and contentment encircling him, how could he ever understand my journey and the situation that had placed me where I was? As I was?

Suddenly, a thought: Should I tell him about Bro? Should I share with him the wrench of my heart and my very soul? And should I speak of this illness which had plagued me for—

Tomorrow was my birthday! Tomorrow I would be thirty-nine. Nearly old. Nearly done.

No. That was my old resignation. Things had changed.

Yet Robert was six years younger, still young—in years and attitude. Although he had seen more of the world by being out amongst it, in a way, I felt as if I had experienced my fair (or unfair?) share from within. Robert had seen and enjoyed the heady experience, like a little boy visiting a favourite place. He saw no shadows, no clouds. To him the world was bright and good.

I had lived within the shadows, with clouds hung low over this room which was my world. During our correspondence I had grown interested in his world, but I was still uncertain how he would react to mine.

I shall see you, surely see you.

In spite of my grand musings, the idea of his coming to my room still tore me with fright. I was safe within the letters, he
there
and me
here.
I had to encourage him to leave things as they were.

I do like to hear testimonies like yours, to happiness, and I feel it is to be a testimony of a higher sort than the obvious one. Still, it is obvious too that you have been spared up to this time, the great natural afflictions against which we are nearly all called, sooner or later, to struggle and wrestle—or your step would not be “on the stair” quite so lightly. And so we turn to you, dear Mr. Browning, for comfort and gentle spiriting! Remember that as you owe your unscathed joy to God, you should pay it back to this world. And I thank you for some of it already.

I reread the words, hoping he would gain appreciation of my view, and not take the words as chastisement. He could not help that he had not suffered, and I did not wish suffering upon him. The innocent joy he found in life was infectious.
That
is what I needed for him to know.

How kind you are! How kindly and gently you speak to me! Some things you say are very touching, and some surprising, and although I am aware that you unconsciously exaggerate what I can be to you, yet it is delightful to be broad awake and think of you as my friend.

May God bless you.

Faithfully yours,
Elizabeth B. Barrett

“There,” I said aloud.

Flush looked up at me, as if waiting to hear more.

That was enough. For now.

But what still needed doing . . .

I pushed my chair back from the desk and stood. My eyes gazed at the opened window, that opening that separated my here and the rest, there.

It was time to breach the barrier, to do what I told Robert I felt compelled to do.

I stood in front of the window, and with arms unused to physicality beyond the pen, with effort and much puffing, I slid the window high within its frame. And then . . .

Then I placed my hands just so upon the sill, my fingers the first to pass into strange territory. Encouraged that they did not retreat and suffered no repercussions, I urged my head and shoulders forwards, past the boundary, into the new frontier.

My heart and lungs reacted to the effort—and the drama—but did
not rebel. And so I stood there, hands on the sill, torso thrust forward into the world outside, and breathed deep.

I looked right, then left. The rooftops of our neighbours greeted me, and I noticed another window down the way. Was someone in that room now? Was their window opened or closed? If I spoke loudly I could call to them.

But no. I was not ready for that.

And yet the lace of their curtain found release and fluttered its silent hello.

I laughed, and felt a place within grow larger.

Unused to my presence, a pigeon fluttered in agitation but soon settled and strutted its head in greeting. I heard a baby crying from some other window, but found only delight in its pure evidence of life.

The breeze—which had full permission to enter my room, flew around my face and entered freely into the folds and crevasses of my dress. I shivered, but not from any cold. My lungs, jealous of the attention, drew the breeze deep, and only with reluctance let it free again. The smell! It was new and fresh and clear and held every promise of the rebirth of the season.

All this wrapped around me and made me fully know that this small act of leaning through the window was a good thing, an accomplishment as heady and meaningful as any poem penned or letter created. It was a beginning.

I lifted my face to the sun and let its warmth and light caress me with its favour.

I sat before my dressing table while Wilson unrolled the rags from my hair. She was quite expert at forming the curls into right ringlets about my head.

“Oh dear,” she said, her fingers squeezing a lock of hair. “This one is still damp. The curl will surely fall.”

I had some reading to do and did not wish to prolong my morning toilet. “Can you not just sweep it under, beneath the pinning. Or perhaps—”

Suddenly a burst of laughter rushed up the stairs to our ears. One guffaw was unfamiliar.

“Do we have a guest for luncheon?” I asked, although it was truly none of my business, as I never joined the family at meals.

“It’s just Mr. Cook.”

Just Mr. Cook?
Her tone implied his presence was a normal occurrence. Although I was aware of his visits at dinner on occasion—when Papa was home—I did not know he still came during the day in Papa’s absence.

“Does my father know about this?” I asked.

I watched Wilson’s expression in the mirror as she set the ringlets right. “Oh no,” she said. “Or I wouldn’t think so.” She noticed my eyes upon her and met their reflection. “I don’t think he is aware of the continued intensity between your sister and . . . To him Mr. Cook is but a cousin, on visit.”

“You imply he
is
more than that? Even after the horrible argument Henrietta had with Papa?”

“Oh yes.” She tucked the offending curl beneath the rest and secured it with a pin. “You should see them together—they see no one but each other.”

The thought that all this was going on unbeknownst to me, while I was in the house, the eldest sibling, the keeper of Papa’s honour . . .

I put a hand on Wilson’s primping. “Please tell Miss Henrietta I wish to see her at once.”

“But your hair—”

“At once.” I had a sudden flush of fear that the both of them would appear in my presence. “Alone.”

She left to convey my message and I finished my hair as best I could. Hair did not matter right now. The propriety and reputation of our family prevailed over all trivialities.

I heard footsteps upon the stair and stood. Although I was not used to wielding authority of any kind, I did know from observation that the one in power did best to stand. Although neither I nor my sister possessed height as an attribute, I would ask her to—

She entered my room. “Yes, Ba? What do you want? I have a guest.”

“Have a seat, please.”

“I don’t have time for a seat. As I said I have a—”

“Guest. So I heard. A man, here, when Papa is gone.”

Henrietta rushed to my side, her voice low. “Don’t tell him, Ba. Papa has met Surtees; he approves of him.”

“As a suitor?”

She pulled away. “Papa’s view on such things is ridiculous. How can he expect none of us to marry? It is all right for you, but for—” Her eyes flashed with recognition of her slight, but she quickly recovered. “I only mean that you have chosen not to pursue love. You are fulfilled within your work. But I have no such work. I only want a husband and children and a home of my own and—”

“You plan marriage, then?”

“Perhaps. One day.” She flounced down upon the chair. “There are the stirrings of love, and the natural progression is towards a union. But the only way to know for certain is to spend time together, to see if our attraction expands to a knowledge and respect. . . .”

I watched her countenance beam and found the change in her striking and disconcerting. Had she truly found love? Was this what love looked like to an observer? So obvious? So gleeful? So emphatic?

“I do see a marked change in you.”

She was at my side again. But this time she knelt down, pulling my hand to her chest. “Oh, Ba. I am changed. And when he puts his hands about my waist, and when he kisses—”

“He’s kissed you?”

She was across the room in a second. “Alfred is our chaperone. He accompanies me to chapel, to Regent’s Park, to skating.”

“Skating? It is spring. This has been going on all winter? Even after Papa got after you and yelled—”

“Mr. Cook is an expert skater.”

“That is not the issue.”

The petulant look—a common condition of my sister’s countenance—returned. “The issue is . . . we love each other, and true love like ours will not be denied.”

“Papa will deny it. Has denied it.”

“Then we will deny him.”

This time it was I who went to her side, my hands on hers, imploring. “You cannot do such a thing. The repercussions would be—”

“Would be what?”

I had rarely thought of it in such tangible terms. “He would disown you.”

“I would not need him. I would have Surtees, and we would have our own home, our own family, our own life.”

No, no, no, no.
“You cannot leave our family.”

“Even the Bible says, ‘Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.’ And though he may like to think otherwise, the Bible has authority over even Papa.”

Cousin John had quoted this verse. To me. I mentally completed the next verse . . .
And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.
I could not repeat the verse to my sister. We Barretts did not speak of such things. But perhaps . . . was this latter part of the passage the key to Papa’s attitude against marriage?

I retreated to a practical issue. “What does Mr. Cook do? Can he support you?”

Henrietta straightened to her full height. “He is an officer in the army.”

Ah. Yes. I remembered now. Arabel had told me he was a lieutenant— a poor lieutenant, with a widowed mother to consider.

Their union would never work. How I wished I had never heard their laughter and summoned her.

“If only you would meet him,” she said.

“No!”

She was taken aback. “Whyever not? You have seemed more well of late. Perhaps if you came down for lunch one of these days and visited with—”

“I could never do such a thing, condone such a thing, not behind Papa’s back.”

“But surely in this, Ba, you could. You have no idea the depth of the feeling, the passion we feel for one another.”

I felt my cheeks grow red. No, I did not. I had long ago set aside such childish possibilities. I did not need nor desire passionate love. To commune with another on a higher level, as I communed with Robert . . .

Henrietta flipped her hands at me and walked out the door. “Oh, why do I bother? You, of all people, will never understand.”

This time she did not retract the slight.

Surprisingly, the statement stung, more than it should have. But amid the sting was something I was rare to feel.

Regret.

And dismay.

Where was the woman who had so boldly leaned out the window into the world? My reaction to Henrietta’s romance showed that old habits, old bastions of believing, were hard to set aside. I should have reveled in my sister’s happiness.

And yet . . . to encourage her would be to go against Papa’s dictum.