375. Elizabeth and Robert Browning had such a complicated love life.

If YOUR love life seems complicated, compare thee to those two poets. Secret trysts, forbidden to marry, daily letters exchanged between England and Italy, a tyrannical father, elopement, married

Elizabeth Barrett’s possessive father forbad his 12 children to marry. He actively banned suitors from visiting. But Robert Browning was persistent.

He knew about her illness since age 15, (what we know today as myalgic encephalomyelitis chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS), polio, or hypokalemic periodic paralysis. But he visited her sickroom daily with flowers and love poems.

Robert's banker father funded his son's literary aspirations. These included long sojourns in Italy, studying poets. By 14 he spoke fluent Italian, French, plus Greek and Latin. Browning learned German, studied music, and gained a knowledge of the arts by reading Vasari and Gerald de Lairesse.

Elizabeth's maid, Wilson, carried letters between the two lovers and aided her elopement to marry Robert at St Marylebone church in 1846. Within the week they moved to Italy for the warmer climate. There they led a full social life among British expatriate literati.

Elizabeth flourished in the Italian climate and being away from her domineering father. Soon after she turned 43 she produced a robust baby boy, Pennini/Pen. She died in 1861 aged 55 and is buried in the Protestant Cemetery in Florence, Italy.

Before he died Robert destroyed all his correspondence, except for his 573 love letters to Elizabeth which his son, Pen, published in 1909. Their love/life story became a film: ‘The Barretts of Wimpole Street’.

Robert lived alone in Italy for another 28 years. His body is buried in Westminster Abbey, London.

Report #375.

Robert Browning’s Poem

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

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Report #375.