Free How Do I Love Thee? by Nancy Moser

his teasing. To him we were a pair. And perhaps we were, for we were both spinsters. Both highly devoted to our fathers. Both writers.
    Mary spoke to John. “I have commended Ba for her project, and yet I worry she is wasting her talent. She is so meticulous of each point and quotation that I fear I do not read her in the reviews, but an interchangeable scholar who offers each fact with scrupulous care.”
    Cousin raised an eyebrow. “Overscrupulous perhaps?”
    “Perhaps,” Mary said.
    I lifted a hand to stop their dialogue. “Pardon me, but I am present—in the room. You should not discuss my flaws so fearlessly.”
    “Would you prefer we speak of them behind your back?”
    “I prefer you not speak of them at all—or even acknowledge their existence. An ‘interchangeable scholar’? I have no wish to own that title in any aspect of my life.”
    John clapped. “Bravo, Ba! There is the feisty girl I love.”
    He still thought of me as a child. “Woman, cousin.”
    “Authoress,” Mary added. “What new creative piece are you working on, Ba?”
    I was glad the discussion had moved away from my shortcomings. It was true that I did not wish to be known as a reviewer but as a poet, the creator of my own work. “Since my last book of poems came out four years ago, I have been compiling work for another compilation. Yet I would like there to be a significant, longer piece as the foundation—perhaps six or seven hundred lines.”
    “Since you have the classics freshly planted in your mind, perhaps a classical theme?” John suggested.
    “Father wishes for a religious theme.”
    “And you?” Mary asked.
    “I was thinking of something Napoleonic.”
    “Something short and repressive?” John said with a smile.
    “Something long and powerful.”
    He nodded his approval. “Why do you not begin, then?”
    “I have already told Mr. Dilke I would start a survey of English poets next.”
    “Ah me,” Mary said.
    “I have promised him as much.”
    “You should have promised him less,” she said. “Your own work must take precedence.”
    “The reviews are my own work now.”
    “They are a rehashing of other writers’ work.”
    I was hesitant to tell them this next but felt compelled to do so. “In truth, I am currently without a publisher. Moxon—who as you know is the publisher of Keats, Shelley, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Browning, and me—has recently deemed me noncommercial. Although he respects my work, he has told my brother, told George, that he can’t afford to publish me.”
    “Perhaps he can be persuaded?” Mary said.
    I shook my head. When Bro used to act as my intermediary, he hedged his words to me, softening the harshness of rejection. But George—being good and true, honest and kind, but a little over—grave and reasonable—told me exactly what was said. Although I appreciated knowing the truth and the whole truth, sometimes I missed Bro’s protection. “I will put off trying again for a year or so and spend my time improving the quality of my offerings.”
    “None of us are beyond improvement,” John said.
    “I do have good news, though,” I said. I would wait for them to ask.
    “Oh, do tell,” Mary said.
    “Cornelius Mathew, an editor in New York City, is interested in my work. He has deigned himself to be my trustee for the further extension of my reputation in America.”
    “Bravo!” John said.
    Mary shook her head. “Just like Jesus. His hometown spurned Him, and He only gained followers elsewhere.”
    I did not feel comfortable with the comparison. “Many people are better known beyond the boundaries of their home ground.” I nodded once for emphasis. “I like Americans. From what I’ve heard, they are kind and courteous.”
    Out of the blue, Mary changed the tone of the conversation. “Caroline Norton was just ranked first in a list of the top ten British poetesses.”
    My breath stopped. “Who created this list?” I hoped for some obscure publication.
    “ The