In which G F Watts (40) marries Ellen Terry (16) to save her from a life on the stage

Mine was a chill wedding day, but rapt, in sealskin bliss,                         
I saw only coral buttons and white, quilted bonnets.                                       
‘Don’t cry. You’ll make your nose swell,’ my husband’s sage advice.       
I turned my perfect cheek his way, smiled, not knowing                         
I could never be Allegorical Wife                                                               
to stand beside Hope and Love, in Watts’ House of Life.                        

As little Nelly Watts, I marvelled at his world,                                          
calm, low voices, manners refined. Adrift                                     
among sensuous colour, curves, passionate words,                                             
I cared not for their dreams of changing worlds.                                     
Armoured as Galahad, I sensed nothing                                                  
immanent, but dreamed of slaying dragons.                                                        
Galloping alongside Browning from Ghent                                                            
cared nothing for the news, just its music.                                                                                               
Disraeli’s Young England, mere clouds in my sky as I                                         
practised petticoat slides on curving, burnished banister.                                                           

My days of playing pirate, not wife, seeking fun                                                    
not enlightenment, destroyed his dream                                                  
to save me from disorderly life.                                                                 
Heeding whispers from well-meaning friends,                                         
he returned me to my father’s house.                                                       
I railed, stormed, stamped. Incompatibility
of temper’, he said … then left.
Strident voices, a parody of what was lost,
my perfect face mere bagatelle       
in the graceless rooms of my family.                                                         

Once, on a bawdy Brighton street, we met as strangers.                          
‘My how you’ve grown,’ he said, as to a favoured niece

Choosing
Dame Ellen Terry painted by G F Watts at the time of their marriage.