Leading Victorian writer Elizabeth Barrett Browning is as known for her enduring love for Robert Browning (immortalised in their letters to each other) as she is for her lyrical Romantic poetry. After her mother’s death in 1828, Barrett Browning moved with her father from the family estate in Herefordshire, first to Devon and then to London. There, her cousin, John Kenyon, introduced her to many of the leading writers of the day, including Coleridge, Wordsworth and Tennyson. For her mid-teens, Barrett Browning had suffered from a mysterious illness that resulted in severe headaches and limited mobility, but she directed all of her energy in writing the outstandingly beautiful poems for which she became famous. In 1844, Barrett Brownings’collection Poems brought her public acclaim and also to the notice of Robert Browning, a young poet, who began corresponding with her. The couple finally met in 1845 and their courtship began in earnest, although it was carried out secretly.
The couple had a profound influence on each other’s writing and their love for each other is revealed in the lovely letters they exchanged with each other, even after their marriage. They honeymooned in Paris and then made their home in Italy, where they resided until Barrett Browning’s death on 29 June 1861. She died in her husband’s arms.
‘I have no words for you, my dearest … You are mine, I am yours’
Sunday.
I have no words for you, my dearest, – I shall never have – You are mine, I am yours. Now, here is one sign of what I said: that I must love you more than at first… a little sign, and to be looked narrowly for or it escapes me, but then the increase it shows can only be little, so very little now…
At first I only thought of being happy in you, – in your happiness: now I most think of you in the dark hours that must come – I shall grow old with you, and die with you – as far as I can look into the night I see the light with me: and surely with that provision of comfort one should turn with fresh joy and renewed sense of security to the sunny middle of the day, – I am in the full sunshine now, – and after, all seems cared for – is it too homely an illustration if I say the day’s visit is not crossed by uncertainties as to the return thro’ the wild country at nightfall?
Now Keats speaks of “Beauty – that must die – and Joy whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding farewell.” And who spoke of – looking up into the eyes and asking “And how long will you love us”? – There is a Beauty that will not die, a Joy that bids no farewell, dear dearest eyes that will love forever! And I – am to love no longer than I can – Well, dear – and when I can no longer – you will not blame me? – you will do only as ever, kindly and justly, – hardly more: I do not pretend to say I have chosen to put my fancy to such an experiment, and consider how that is to happen, and what measures ought to be taken in the emergency – because in the “universality of my sympathies” I certainly number a very lively one with my own heart and soul, and cannot amuse myself by such a spectacle as their supposed extinction or paralysis, – there is no doubt I should be an object for the deepest commiseration of you or any more fortunate human being: – and I hope that because such a calamity does not obtrude itself on me as a thing to be prayed against, it is no less duly implied with all the other visitations from which no humanity can be altogether exempt – just as God bids us ask for the continuance of the “daily bread”, – “battle, murder and sudden death” lie behind doubtless – I repeat, and perhaps in so doing, only give one more example of the instantaneous conversion of that indignation we bestow in another’s case, into wonderful lenity when it becomes our own, … that I only contemplate the possibility you make me recognize, with pity, and fear … no anger at all, – and imprecations of vengeance, for what? – Observe, I only speak of cases possible; of sudden impotency of mind, – that is possible – there are other ways of “changing”, “ceasing to love” &c which it is safest not to think of nor believe in…
And now, love, dear heart of my heart, my own, only Ba – see no more – see what I am, what God in his constant mercy ordinarily grants to those who have, as I, received already so much, – much, past expression! It is but … if you will so please – at worst, forestalling the one or two years, for my sake; for you will be as sure of me one day as I can be now of myself – and why not now be sure? See, love – a year is gone by – we were in one relation when you wrote at the end of a letter “Do not say I do not tire you” (by writing) – “I am sure I do” – A year has gone by – Did you tire me then? Now, you tell me what is told; for my sake, sweet, let the few years go by, – we are married – and my arms are round you, and my face touches yours, and I am asking you, “Were you not to me, in that dim beginning of 1846, a joy beyond all joys, a life added to and transforming mine, the good I choose from all the possible gifts of God on this earth, for which I seem to have lived, – which accepting, I thankfully step aside and let the rest get what they can, – of what, it is very likely, they esteem more – for why should my eye be evil because God’s is good, – why should I grudge that, giving them, I do believe, infinitely less, he gives them a content in the inferior good and belief in its worth – I should have wished that further concession, that illusion as I believe it, for their sakes – but I cannot undervalue my own treasure and so scant the only tribute of mere gratitude which is in my power to pay.” – Hear this said now before the few years, and believe in it now, for then, dearest!”
