How Do I Love Thee? (44 page)

My eyes filled with tears. “Why . . . yes. I suppose I have.”

“Then I hereby grant you leave from the pressures of all needless compliance—unless, of course, your desire
is
to comply.”

His smile . . . it was the light of my life.

But as such, I had eventually seen that Pisa was too serene for him. Robert needed a place teeming with life and laughter and activity. And so we moved to Florence and found an apartment in the Casa Guidi, near the Pitti Palace.

It was situated one story above the street. On the side of the palace was Robert’s room and Wilson’s bedroom and sitting room. On the other side was a dining room, a drawing room, and my own room with a smaller sitting room. These last three were large in proportion and boasted tall coffered ceilings. There were eight large windows off the drawing room that led to a long balcony. It was not wide, but Robert and I loved to stand upon it and listen to the organ and choir music wafting from the ancient convent church of San Felice across the street. We often stood arm in arm and watched the moon rise over the church.

We took the rooms at Casa Guidi unfurnished for twenty-six pounds a year (furnished would have cost twice that). We enjoyed finding furnishings to fill it, and had created a dreamy look, enhanced by plants at the windows, tapestry-covered walls, and old pictures of saints that looked out sadly from their carved frames of black wood.

What delighted us most about Florence was the innocent gaiety of the people. They were forever at feast day and holiday celebrations, and came and went along the streets, the women in elegant dresses carrying glittering fans, shining away every thought of northern cares and taxes such as make people grave in England. There was little class distinction here. Rich and poor alike listened to the same music, walked in the same gardens, and looked at the same Raphaels. Everyone appeared dressed for a drawing room. They exhibited the most gracious and graceful courtesy and gentleness. The only annoyance was the constant noise of people walking, talking, and singing beneath our windows all night long. I came to believe the people never slept at night except by the merest accident.

“More tea, Mr. Robert?” Wilson asked.

His mouth full of turkey, he put a finger to his lips and nodded. Wilson poured a fresh cup.

Wilson was another blessing. She had proven herself to be far more than a maid. She was a friend, and partook of our outings and even our evening readings to each other.

I slipped a bit of beef to Flush, who wisely sat at my feet and not Robert’s.

Our life was full and complete—but for two shadows that hung over us.

Firstly . . . my family. Or rather Papa and my brothers. On countless occasions I had attempted reconciliation through my sisters. But I still had not heard further word from Papa, and had received a few unkind letters from various brothers, reiterating their view that Robert—the real criminal in all this—had overpersuaded me and had married me for my fortune. George had graciously implied he would forgive me, but would never accept “Browning.”

I did not reply to his letter. Rather, I supposed they meant to salute me with the point of the sword for the rest of my life.

That London’s next winter proved to be as brutal as the previous winter had been mild seemed to have no significance to them. Would I have survived if I had kept to London? Apparently it mattered as little to my brothers as to my father that I was well and happy in my life. I looked back upon the mild winter of our courtship with full gratitude to God. It was His grace that had kept us warm, kept me well, and allowed Robert his frequent visits.

I sighed. If Papa had allowed, I should have loved him out of a heart altogether open to him. It was not my fault he would not let me. Now it was too late. I was not his nor my own, anymore. My love for Papa had always been a peculiar thing. He could have held me by a thread.

Luckily, those friends who knew my father well gave us their blessings. It was some consolation. But upon reflection, I came to realize that what happened to me could not have happened to anyone else in England. The condition of my family’s household—the conditions under which it was run—were not the norm. How odd it came to seem, and yet, while living it, how blind we were to the true measure of its idiosyncrasy.

The second shadow that hung over us was twofold. Two miscarriages. In Pisa, I had not believed I was pregnant even when I had felt unwell and had felt pains. Wilson had suggested it was so, and
if
it were so, that the pain was not normal. She had also suggested that the opium I still took at that time could not be good for the baby. But I was so stupid and so enmeshed with the drama of what we had just accomplished with our marriage that I was in denial. Until seven weeks later—five months into a pregnancy—I miscarried. Dr. Cook was blunt in stating that if he had been called six weeks prior, everything would have gone as right as possible.

And then I suffered a second miscarriage last fall, when I was only two months along. I nearly died. I could not help but be bitter to think that if I had died, Robert would not have been able to contact the men of my family.

“Ba, you’re not eating.” Robert put a piece of fish on my plate. “Eat it and be strong. I thought we’d go for a walk this afternoon. If you have the time . . .”

Time. Yes. It
was
time. Time for joy.

“I don’t feel like eating much right now,” I said. “I have been a little queasy of late.”

His face instantly mirrored his concern. “You’ve been without appetite for a good two months. And yet you continue to say you are well? I don’t understand.”

I looked at Wilson and held her gaze a long moment. Suddenly, her eyebrows lifted. In response I offered her the slightest of nods. She smiled, then rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Robert called after her, “But, Wilson, you didn’t finish your meal.” To me he said, “If she doesn’t return, I will eat her portion of the cheesecake, I swear I will.”

“You may have my portion too, dearest.”

He sat back in his chair and tossed his napkin on the table. “Now I know you are not well. Should I call the doctor?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But I will let you call him in seven months or so.”

“Seven . . . ?” His eyes widened. “No. Really? Are you . . . ?”

“I am.”

He nearly knocked his chair over as he rushed to my side, knelt on the floor, and took me into his arms.

I kissed the top of his head. “I will be more careful this time, dearest. I will even relinquish my opium for the duration. Just in case. I am not a young woman. I am forty-two . . .” I took his face in mine. “I will do anything and everything to have this child—a healthy child.”

So help me God.

The heat was unbearable. Although Florence was our chosen city, and although we called her home, in the summer the Arno nearly steamed with heat. And so we fled to the countryside, searching for relief by heading towards the Adriatic Sea.

Murray’s
Handbook for Travellers
suggested Fano, outside of Ancona, would be an acceptable summer residence. . . .

I stood to the side of the window, clad only in my petticoats, fanning myself. “How can there be so much heat? The world will surely turn into a fireball.”

Robert was also dressed—or undressed—to his trousers and shirt. “Do come away from the window, Ba. Someone might see you.”

I knew he was right, but the need for air . . . I did not much care if the waiter saw me dressed so. The heat had made me demoralized out of all sense of female vanity, not to say decency.

“It is this hotel. Let us go to the church again, where it is cool,” he said.

I stopped fanning a moment. “This is the third time you’ve wanted to go to San Agostino in as many days.”

He shrugged, but I saw him gather his notebook and a pencil.

“It’s the angel you wish to visit, yes?”

He took a penknife and began to sharpen his pencil over a newspaper. “It is the first time I have felt inspired to write since our marriage, Ba. I cannot waste this muse.”

I nodded and reluctantly gathered my dress.

I knew Robert was disappointed in his lack of writing output. When we had first discussed marriage, our desire was to get away, where we could both create new works. And I had succeeded—to a point. I had recently sent a poem called “The Runaway Slave” to America, and had completed a portion of a new poem called “Casa Guidi Windows.” I was also working on a new edition of my previous work—as was Robert, to a lesser degree. He had been editing but not creating anything new. His parents had believed in his writing so much that they had never required him to work otherwise. With my brother’s mean comments about Robert marrying me for my money . . . I wished for him to feel the fulfillment of fresh creation—and subsequent income.

The painting of the angel, above the altar, that so inspired him was by Guercino. It had enormous outstretched wings and was touching a young child who knelt with prayer-clasped hands. The angel seemed to be teaching him how to pray by looking towards heaven. Perhaps the statue was filling a need in my husband beyond literary inspiration?

Once we were dressed we went to the church. Robert walked faster than usual, and I had trouble keeping up with him, but I did not hold him back. I was pleased at his urgency. I understood it, for when inspired one does not amble, one runs towards the source.

It took a moment for our eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine to the darkness of the church, but I embraced its chill. I let go of Robert’s arm, allowing him to step forward towards the altar. His head was high, his eyes straight ahead, focused on the painting.

I also moved forward, taking a place on a chair near a side aisle. Robert stood directly in front of the altar, enrapt. I studied the painting while he did, wanting to see what he saw, feel what he felt.

The child, of about three, on its knees, hands clasped, made me yearn for our own child. Would it be born healthy? Would we have the chance to teach him or her to pray? My arms nearly ached with the thought of holding a child. I bowed my head.
Please, Father. Bring our child safely into this world.

I heard Robert’s feet upon the stone floor. He backed to a chair and placed his notebook on his lap. After only a moment’s hesitation, his pencil flew across the page. To witness the full cycle of inspiration, from an ungraspable thought to a formation of words, to their declaration upon a page . . . my heart swelled with gratitude for this man, this vocation we shared, and this moment in this sixteenth-century church. How I wished I could speak with the artist Guercino and let him know that his work had completed its mission of touching another heart and mind. For what more did any mortal want?

How I wished to stand behind Robert and watch the words flow upon the page. But I dared not move and break the tenuous thread that connected my husband and the angel. He was always patient with me and so I would return the favour.

I do not know how much time passed, as my own thoughts traversed from here to there, from prayer to the corporeal. But suddenly, Robert slapped his notebook shut and stood. Only then did he look around for me, as though forgetting I had accompanied him.

“Ba.”

“Robert.”

He extended his arm to me. “Shall we go?”

“You are finished?”

He patted his notebook, the glow of satisfaction on his face. “I am.”

“May I read it?”

He seemed taken aback.

I put a hand upon his. “It’s fine. I don’t need—”

“No,” he said. “I will read it to you. At least in part.” He offered me a chair and stood before me. He opened the notebook and held it towards the dimming light:

“Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave
That child, when thou hast done with him, for me!
Let me sit all the day here, that when eve
Shall find performed thy special ministry,
And time come for departure, thou, suspending
Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending,
Another still, to quiet and retrieve.

“Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze,
And suddenly my head is covered o’er
With those wings, white above the child who prays
Now on that tomb—and I shall feel thee guarding
Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding
Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.