The Barretts of Wimpole Street
Imagine you’re a woman, with a mind
as trained, acute and fertile as exists.
Imagine that your erudite, refined
creations top each year’s best-seller lists.
You write in English, French and Portuguese.
Translating ancient classics from the Greek,
(for you, no bigger deal than shelling peas)
you thrill the world, to hear Orestes speak!
But this is eighteen forty. There’s a catch.
You’re middle-aged and single. “On the shelf”.
Your father keeps you housebound, unattached:
he wants you as a frill, not for yourself.
The man’s a monster. You’re not free to act.
He holds you here, unnoticed, bored, unwed.
Your only means of protest at the fact
of kidnap is, you’ve taken to your bed.
Like many women, both before and since,
you’re “delicate”. It’s how you take a stand.
But what of that long-dreamed of, handsome prince,
your rescuer? Don’t worry. He’s at hand!
Elizabeth M. Barrett is your name.
A gentleman comes calling, loves your work.
He’s Robert Browning, of “Sordello” fame,
and suddenly there’s light amid the murk!
He shows up every day at Wimpole Street,
and soon you loosen the paternal tether:
with Mister Browning, you’ve re-found your feet!
You’ll marry him, then run away together!
The banns were read discreetly, days ago:
the journey’s booked. No vacillating now!
The father’s out on business: down below,
in Wimpole Street, a hansom waits: but how
to saunter past the servants? What a fright!
My trusty Morgan – glad I could suborn her:
Well, here we go – I’ll sleep in France tonight!
Brave Robert’s waiting, just around the corner!
The thing was carried off without a hitch.
They wed, they fled. So farewell, Wimpole Street!
And far from wish undone her Dunmow Flitch,
Elizabeth’s contentment was complete.
One’s fate can turn upon a single act.
Two poets lived as one – idyllic bliss!
They now had what they previously had lacked –
each other. Fiction can’t improve on this!
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