The Journey to Italy

Abstract

Paris, 22 September. Robert Browning, my poet, is here — and with a wife he has run off with — and who, think you is this wife? — no other than Elizabeth Barrett — my poetess — a pretty pair to go thro this prosaic world together! — but there was nothing else to be done apparently — her life depended on her leaving England this winter (at least all hope of health); — her father would not hear of it — and Browning, in desperation — for he has long loved her, asserted the only right that could supersede that of a father — married her a week ago — and has brought her so far safely — but she has suffered much — she is nervous — frightened ashamed agitated happy, miserable—I have sympathized, scolded[,] rallied, cried and helped — and now they want me to join them on the road to the South. …