How Do I Love Thee? Read Online Free PDF Page A

have to worry about me.
    Inspired by his sacrifice to stay with me during our grief and determined to strengthen my faith through witness of his own, I felt the responsibility—ready or not—to take up my pen again and write.
    Not poetry, for my mind was still too muddled. But perhaps a letter?
    That settled, I tapped a finger against my lips. To whom should I write?
    Before Bro’s death I had been in correspondence with many elderly gentlemen scholars, and had been immersed in a stimulating exchange with the editor and critic Richard Henry Horne. He was incredibly witty and frank, and enticed me with gossip and news. He had made my separation from the literary society of London bearable.
    Yet I did not feel it proper to offer my first letter after so long a silence to any of these gentlemen, for the fact being they were . . . men.
    I immediately thought of the women in my life, and my thoughts flew to one special woman who deserved the honour of my first intention.
    Mary Russell Mitford was my best friend and a fellow author. I, who was not easily befriended and who did not easily befriend, had been introduced to this woman over three years past. Nearly twice my age, never married, devoted to her invalid father, Miss Mitford had achieved success with Our Village , a series of essays on country life first published in Lady’s Magazine twenty years previous. Papa admired her work—which was not an easily earned compliment. He said the essays reminded him of our little world back in Hope End. A lifetime ago . . .
    I sat back on my sofa and closed my eyes, once again letting memories wrap around me like a warm blanket. In hindsight, I was appalled at my reluctance to meet her. Papa’s cousin John Kenyon, an affable gentleman who knew everyone worth knowing, had been forced to urge me for months towards a meeting with Miss Mitford. My disinclination had stemmed from nerves regarding such direct contact—I so preferred the physical distance provided by letters. Cousin John became peeved at me, telling me I caused him to feel like a king beseeching a beggar to take a dukedom. He had deemed me foolish, a blemish I deserved yet found difficult to clear from my character.
    I had finally succumbed to his gentle but persistent pressure and agreed to meet Miss Mitford at London’s Diorama and Zoological Gardens. At that time in my life’s journey I still ventured into public on occasion, but the anticipation caused me immeasurable worry. Yet it was not the visit into nature that caused me consternation but the contact with this stranger. What would we say to each other? Would she like me? What recourse would I have if it did not go well?
    As usual, my worries had made me ill. My heart beat with an alarming rhythm, and I paced my room all morning. Adding to my disquiet was anger—at myself. How could I feel at ease discussing all manner of intellectual subjects with scholars (albeit through letters far more than in person), yet spin myself into a web of anxiety at the thought of meeting a revered spinster woman who by all accounts was amusing, kind, and had interest in meeting me ?
    Yet upon meeting her . . . I was made ashamed of my fears. I was delighted to discover that like me, Miss Mitford did not partake of womanly chatter, but spoke of life and books and interesting literary figures she had met. The very evening before our meeting she had been introduced to the young poet Robert Browning, and the very next night was going to a dinner at Cousin John’s home—to which I had also been invited—at which Robert Wordsworth would be in attendance. I had been fighting my fear regarding this dinner for weeks, looking for excuses not to go, yet knowing that the chance to meet this famous writer would prove irresistible, even amid my debilitating shyness.
    During our meeting, as Miss Mitford and I walked among the chimpanzees and giraffes, I found myself sharing my life story with her, completely unbidden and unplanned. My