How Do I Love Thee? (25 page)

If Robert might leave . . .

The doctor left the draughts on the bedside and closed his doctor’s bag. “Are you still taking the opiate?”

“For sleep,” I said. “I do not seem able to be without it.”

“There is no need to try,” he said. “Use it as often as you like. And these too,” he went on, pointing at the new bottles to add to my collection. “Twice a day, one teaspoon each.”

I did not ask what the new elixirs would do for me. “To make me better” was the goal, and I could be assured by the depth of Dr. Chambers’ skill that they would not make me worse.

The doctor headed to the door. “I am glad your father called me. He said you were not in favour of a visit, but we all know that he and I have your best interests in mind.”

“I do know that,” I said. And I did not lie in my agreement. But what neither of them understood—what I was still trying to comprehend—was that I no longer wished to be ill. Although I did not know how to be well, I wished to try it. For only in wellness was there any future.

My future.

Never would I have thought I would entertain such a word. Robert was to blame, or to thank, depending on how that word played out for good or naught. But the very chance of it turning for the better . . .

After the doctor left, I retrieved my lap desk from beneath the covers. I had not responded to Robert’s letter as yet but was in the midst of it when the doctor had come. The writing was taking time, due to the condition of my agitation and my subsequent weakness, but more so because of the content that I was determined to include. If . . . if . . . Robert and I were to move forwards in our friendship, if we were to actually meet, I had to indulge his many requests for information about
me.

But what to say and what to omit? The composition had been slow in coming, had taken many drafts, but was close to completion. I read it through, knowing it was far from perfect but hoping I would deem it good enough to post.

Whenever I delay to write to you, dear Mr. Browning, it is not, be sure, that I take my “own good time” but submit to my own bad time. It was kind of you to wish to know how I was, and not unkind of me to suspend my answer to your question—for indeed I have not been very well, nor have had much heart for saying so. This implacable weather! this east wind that seems to blow through the sun and moon! who can be well in such a wind? Yet for me, I should not grumble. There has been nothing very bad the matter with me, as there used to be—I only grow weaker than usual, and learn my lesson of being mortal, in a corner . . . but all this must end! April is coming. There will be both a May and a June if we live to see such things, and perhaps, after all, we may.

Although I had been forthcoming about my weakness, I was not ready to give him the true explanation that the very thought of
him
was the cause. Best to blame it on the weather. I read on, delving into our proposed meeting and the discomfort it caused:

And as to seeing you besides, I observe that you distrust me, and that perhaps you penetrate my morbidity and guess how, when the moment comes to see a living human face to which I am not accustomed, I shrink and grow pale in the spirit. Do you? You are learned in human nature, and you know the consequences of leading such a secluded life as mine—notwithstanding all my fine philosophy about social duties and the like. I will indeed see you when the warm weather has revived me a little and put the earth “to rights” again so as to make pleasures of that sort possible. For if you think that I shall not like to see you, you are wrong ( for all your learning). But I shall be afraid of you at first—though I am not, in writing thus. You are Paracelsus, and I am a recluse, with nerves that have been broken on the rack and now hang loosely, quivering at a step and a breath.

I quivered now as I read it. To tell him—in writing—that we would meet . . . it made me glance at the vials Dr. Chambers had left for me.

But no. The decision must not be celebrated or endured with elixirs, but in full mind and heart. And Robert must know my full mind and heart. And past:

What you say of society draws me on to many comparative thoughts of your life and mine. You seem to have drunken of the cup of life full, with the sun shining on it. I have lived only inwardly; or with sorrow for a strong emotion. Before this seclusion of my illness, I was secluded still, and there are few of the youngest women in the world who have not seen more, heard more, known more of society than I, who am scarcely to be called young now. I grew up in the country—had no social opportunities, had my heart in books and poetry, and my experience in reveries. My sympathies drooped towards the ground like an untrained honeysuckle—and but for one person, in my own house—but of this I cannot speak.

Although I wished to share my past with him—and that past most certainly included Bro as a key player—I was still not ready to tell him full measure. Not of that which continued to pull at my very being. But I could talk to him about Hope End.

It was a lonely life, growing green like the grass around it. Books and dreams were what I lived in—and domestic life seemed to buzz gently around, like the bees about the grass. And so time passed, and passed—and afterwards, when my illness came and I seemed to stand at the edge of the world with all done, and no prospect (as appeared at one time) of ever passing the threshold of one room again; I turned to thinking with some bitterness (after the greatest sorrow of my life had given me room and time to breathe) that I had stood blind in this temple I was about to leave—that I had seen no human nature, that my brothers and sisters of the earth were names to me, that I had beheld no great mountain or river, nothing in fact. I was as a man dying who had not read Shakespeare, and it was too late! Do you understand? I have had much of the inner life, and from the habit of self-consciousness and self-analysis, I make great guesses at human nature in the main. But how willingly I would as a poet exchange some of this lumbering, ponderous, helpless knowledge of books for some experience of life and man, for some . . .

I did not wish for him to think of me as a complainer. I moved to explain:

But grumbling is a vile thing. We should all thank God for our measures of life, and think them enough for each of us. I write so that you may not mistake what I wrote before in relation to society, although you do not see from my point of view; and that you may understand what I mean fully when I say that I have lived all my chief joys, and indeed nearly all emotions that go warmly by that name and relate to myself personally, in poetry and in poetry alone.

Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write—it is life for me. Why, what is to live? Not to eat and drink and breathe, but to feel the life down all the fibres of being, passionately and joyfully. And thus, one lives in composition surely—not always—but when the wheel goes round and the procession is uninterrupted. Is it not so with you? Oh—it must be so. For the rest, there will be necessarily a reaction; and, in my own particular case, whenever I see a poem of mine in print, or even smoothly transcribed, the reaction is most painful. The pleasure, the sense of power without which I could not write a line, is gone in a moment; and nothing remains but disappointment and humiliation. I never wrote a poem which you could not persuade me to tear to pieces if you took me at the right moment! I have a seasonable humility, I do assure you.

I smiled at the words, but more than that, at the freedom I experienced by sharing them with this man—this one man of all men—who might understand.

How delightful to talk about oneself; but as you “tempted me and I did eat,” I entreat your longsuffering of my sin, and ah! if you would but sin back so in turn! You and I seem to meet in a mild contrarious harmony . . . as in the “si no, si no” of an Italian duet. I want to see more of men, and you have seen too much, you say. I am in ignorance, and you, in satiety. “You don’t even care about reading now.” Is it possible? And I am as “fresh” about reading as ever I was—as long as I keep out of the shadow of the dictionaries and of theological controversies, and the like. Shall I whisper it to you under the memory of the last rose of last summer? I am very fond of romances; yes! and I read them not only as some wise people are known to do, for the sake of the eloquence here and the sentiment there, and the graphic intermixtures here and there, but for the story! just as little children would, sitting on their papa’s knee. My childish love of a story never wore out with my love of plum cake, and now there is not a hole in it. I make it a rule, for the most part, to read all the romances that other people are kind enough to write—and woe to the miserable wight who tells me how the third volume endeth. Have you any surviving innocence of this sort? or do you call it idiocy? If you do, I will forgive you, only smiling to myself—I give you notice—with a smile of superior pleasure!

It was done. As much to say as I could say at this moment. And so I bid him adieu.

I had much to say to you, or at least something, of the “blind hopes,” etc., but am ashamed to take a step into a new sheet. If you mean “to travel,” why, I shall have to miss you. Do you really mean it? How is the play going on? and the poem? May God bless you!

Ever and truly yours,
E.B.B.

I carefully compiled the sheets and folded them just so. And then I did something that had become a habit—unnoticed at first, but now embraced.

I kissed the envelope.

And then I called Wilson to come, to send it on its way.

After giving her instruction, I added one more. “And these,” I said, pointing to the two new medicines left by Dr. Chambers. “Dispose of these, if you will.”

“But—”

“I wish them gone.”

With a curious look she nodded and took them away.

I felt better already.

Cleansed of the past and ready for the future.

T
EN

Come then.

I could not believe I actually wrote those words! It was May twentieth, two months to the day since I had written Robert the letter which presented my past upon a platter. That he had not gone running into the night, put off by its depressing and finite nature, was a surprise. And a relief. And yet the transition from letters to the chance of meeting face-to-face did not come easily. There were accusations and miscommunications about our motives and the true meaning of our words. There were assurances towards me that I was the only person he ever wrote letters to, and to him the assurance that I did not write to others as to him. And there were illnesses—on his part, not mine. He was prone to debilitating headaches that lasted for days and days, that even forced him to end his society for the season last.

But as a meeting became nearly inevitable, I realized the more I exhibited wariness and gave excuses, the more import I put on the occasion. Wasn’t it unwise to do such a thing? For what if the meeting went badly? Would its outcome seem a matter of life and death because I had elevated it to such a level? It was best to just let it be and keep my continued fears and anxieties to myself.

And so, on May the sixteenth, I had taken a deep breath and penned the words that would bring this event into being:
Come then.

To my delight, Robert—who had claimed he was not going anywhere for weeks to come because of his headaches—jumped at my words. What I had suggested just last Friday was accepted by return letter later that same evening, and the meeting was arranged for today—Tuesday. Four days from agreement to commencement.

I was in a tizzy for it. Never had my heart beat so wildly as on this day. Never had my mind swam through oceans of what-ifs and could-bes. Would he like me? Would he be appalled by my appearance and the limits of my world? Would we both become tongue-tied when seated within the same time and space?

The last was a very real fear when it was considered that our letters were enjoyed in a delayed manner thus: I wrote him on one day, but he would not read my words until another. And then his response written on that day would not be read by my eyes until yet another day. But to be in the same room, and experience the words in the moment, and be able to respond in kind . . . how heady was the very thought of it!

I looked at the clock. It was nearly three. Nearly time to finally see my Robert.

My Robert?

I shook my head at the audacity. He was a friend, a fellow poet. Whatever feelings I had garnered during our four months of letter writing were based on the mutuality we shared within those identities.

Nothing more.

Then why had I instructed Wilson to purchase new black ribbons for my hair? Why had I felt enormous relief when my sisters had told me they were going out for the afternoon? That Papa was gone at work was a given—although I had not been able to keep the meeting from him. I simply could not bend the trust we shared.

Papa had been agreeable to a visit from a poet. And George was gone to his work as a barrister. The other brothers, though not employed, were rarely home at this time—which, of course, was why I had instructed Robert to come after two and before six. I had informed him that one of my sisters would bring him up to my room, but now . . . with the house completely mine (ours), I had instructed Wilson to do the honours. She was waiting for him even now. I just hoped her face was not pressed against the window.