Afternoons with Emily Page 12

  I imagined this was why Father had encouraged my encounter with Emily. He was eager to fit in too!

  “There are three grown children,” Aunt Helen continued. “First there is Austin, the son, whom the village calls ‘Mr. Austin’ to distinguish him from his father. He is a lawyer too; he works in his father’s office. He recently married Susan Gilbert, an old school friend of Miss Emily’s. You have seen them in church.”

  I nodded. Of course, that was where I had seen the woman before. Emily never attended but most of her other family did.

  “The young couple were going to move to Michigan after the wedding, but Mr. Dickinson promised to build them a showplace mansion if they’d only stay here.” Aunt Helen delivered a Unitarian sniff. “I call that vulgar house more eyesore than showplace!”

  “Is there anyone else in the family?” I asked. Despite Emily’s description of her world as being small, The Homestead could certainly accommodate many relatives.

  “Well, there are the two unmarried sisters, Emily and Lavinia. Then there’s their mother, Mrs. Dickinson, who’s very . . .” Aunt Helen paused, searching for the right word. “Who’s very sad, I would say. Miss Lavinia takes care of her.”

  “She does? But I thought she took care of Emily.”

  Aunt Helen sighed again. “She tends to them both. It’s such a familiar sad story, the spinster sister who helps everyone and never has her own life. Miss Lavinia was engaged a few years back, but nothing came of it. Then her beau married another girl. We’ll never see her wedding.”

  I was astounded, as always, by Aunt Helen’s boundless store of facts about people she had never met. “How do you know all this?”

  She put down the scalloped pink shawl she was crocheting for Kate and concentrated on her answer.

  “Let me tell you about how gossip works in a small town like Amherst, Miranda. We women have to live very closely and help each other out on short notice. We have to know what to watch out for and what to expect — so we can be ready when someone needs us.”

  I puzzled over this. It sounded like a wonderful way to be, yet I wasn’t sure how I felt knowing that there were people in Amherst who knew about my family in the way that Aunt Helen knew about the Dickinsons.

  Aunt Helen must have sensed my deliberations. She weighed in with her own judgment. “Just remember, Miranda, the only bad gossip is the kind you make up.”

  “And does everyone always get to hear about everything?”

  “Sooner or later, Miranda. Sooner or later, they do.” She picked up Kate’s shawl and went on working, smiling to herself. For a moment she made me think of Miss Adelaide. How they would enjoy each other! How happy I was to have them both in my life.

  Fall hurried toward winter, and I hurried too. The week could barely contain all the people and events that came rushing toward me, those late autumn days. When I packed my schoolbag in the morning, crowding in my recorder, my atlas, my paints, my pencils and pens, my lunch, my loathed math workbook, my textbooks, and a clean pinafore if I was going on to tea — when I did this, I could not quite believe how smoothly my life had flowed into this new channel and its several branches.

  By now I had worked out a strategy for life at the academy. I stressed my similarities with my classmates and concealed as well as I could my differences. I had grown quite fond of pretty, dark Lolly, with her tipped nose and her lively wit. I didn’t mind taking her orders; they helped me to know what to do. I was becoming very skilled at producing the right Miranda.

  For one thing, I discovered that mentioning visits to The Homestead had a complicated double response; it made me stand out in a way I had been trying to avoid, so I decided to imply, if asked, that they were a duty imposed on me by Father and Aunt Helen for some vague adult reason and that they were even a little distasteful. The ruse seemed to work, and I received looks of sympathy rather than resentment if I had to turn down a Monday invitation.

  I loved writing Miss Adelaide about my new life, and reading her comments. She was enthusiastic about my new family, my school, my teachers — but less so about Emily:

  I hope you will use your friend Miss Dickinson as a literary companion only, without letting her overinfluence your life. Her habits suggest an unhappy person who avoids reality. You are entirely without artifice and therefore defenseless against the purposes of devious people.

  I could not conceive of any motive or purpose Emily might have for our visits other than companionable literary talk, so I simply answered Miss Adelaide that I would indeed take care not to be overinfluenced, and then I changed the subject to Halloween. I had been disappointed by this, for I had always heard stories about my Boston cousins’ costumes and gala parties. But my father explained that the Amherst Unitarians, the strict Congregational elders who had founded the academy and the college, and a group that included Edward Dickinson, believed every holiday should be a sacred festival only.

  “Those sour old Puritans are simply opposed to fun,” he grumbled. “At least they permit us some beauty, which was more than their ancestors did. Have you ever seen a lovelier church?”

  Of course I never had, and I shared his enthusiasm; our columned First Congregational Church was Greek Revival at its purest and finest. When Mr. Howland completed our two wings and added the portico, our new house would look like the First Congregational Church’s younger brother.

  Our young architect came to Thanksgiving dinner with us and asked that we call him “Ethan.” For the first time, I met a group of my father’s students and found them easy and amiable. They enjoyed the riddles and limericks I had collected at school — but not as much as they enjoyed singing harvest hymns with Kate. She wore a new dress of deep rose velvet with a hoop and looked like a Christmas rose herself. Her cloud of dark hair was drawn back with a black velvet bow, and her sculpted oval face was flushed from the songs. She was quiet as ever, except when she sang; she was unaware that none of us could take our eyes off her.

  Before the party, Aunt Helen and Kate gave me the easiest jobs for preparing our feast — like peeling and mashing — and I learned by observing them as we went along. As I watched them turn out the orange-spiced yam pudding and cranberry relish for the next day’s dinner, I told them about my work with flowers and Miss Adelaide. They insisted that I create a harvest centerpiece. So I took out my shears and twine and made a long S of pine boughs and laurel, and placed dark Winesap apples along the curve, and to this added little scarlet crab apples, pinecones, and nuts. Aunt Helen and Kate praised my decoration, so I made a small wreath for Emily from the same materials. I brought it to her the moment I was done.

  She gave me no thanks for this. “Miranda, you have put me down right in the middle of a QUANDARY! If I put your wreath on my door, it would be a lie. I do not ever intend ‘Welcome.’ For me, the key that seals my door opens the one to FREEDOM. And I can’t hang it in my room either, for there I welcome no one but you.”

  Suddenly, and for the first time, I was tired of the whole business.

  “I’ll just put it at the foot of the oak tree on the east corner,” I told Emily, gathering up my things. “The squirrels come there for acorns. They’ll like the nuts for a Thanksgiving treat.”

  I walked briskly home. Tears stung my eyes, though I was fairly certain their source was the vicious wind. If emotion was the culprit, it would be anger, not disappointment or hurt feelings.

  Emily needed only to have kept the wreath up for an hour, I thought. Just until I went home. What harm would it have done to be gracious, to tell a courteous lie to spare someone’s feelings? I realized Emily was unaccountably rigid in her sense of integrity, in her unwillingness to compromise even the tiniest bit to perform an act of social nicety. I couldn’t decide if her behavior was to be admired or admonished; I did know I felt my own gesture unappreciated.

  This Thanksgiving wreath began a season of messages sent through style. As Christmas neared, each house displayed its family’s position in decoration. I had worried that Puri
tan severity would limit our celebrations, then I discovered that only ribbon was never used by the most strict of families. Thus the degree of worldliness in a household was clearly stated by the wreath on the door.

  The Dickinson mansion wore a spray of pine, with a discreet cluster of pinecones and no ribbon at all. However, The Evergreens, Mr. Austin Dickinson’s showy Italianate villa next door, flaunted a huge circle of crimson velvet bows and streamers, with scattered glitters in between.

  These last were not clearly seen from the street. When I described The Evergreens’ wreath to Emily, she begged me to get a closer look. On my way home in the dusk, I went up Mrs. Austin’s front walk, and I found that the trinkets were bulging silver cherubs, hoisting golden trumpets. When I described them to Emily, she was enchanted.

  “They sound like that vulgar German blown glass to me,” she gloated. Despite her condemnation of the ornaments as vulgar, there was delight in her tone. “You know, I really ADMIRE Sue. When she wants to say something, she makes herself HEARD!”

  This was how I learned that Emily loved the small revelation, the telling detail. She had plenty of gossip from her sister and brother, from the hired girl and the stableman, but she was a natural collector of trivia and symbols, and hungered for the harvest of a keen eye. I began to gather them for her as I once gathered shells on the beach. These scraps, sprinkled in my letters, amused Miss Adelaide too, and I found that by seeking out these items to share, I was more fully aware in my own present. I had the opportunity to live my life twice — once in the moment and again in my retelling.

  The snow came on casually, an inch here or there. We could still get about town easily. The days were clear and windless. I enjoyed the clean brilliance, the untrampled snow, unstained by the soot I remembered in Boston. Every day, I knew more faces to greet in the village or the classroom.

  Lolly Wheeler and I had learned some carols on our recorders. Father suggested that Kate practice them with us; the sound was glorious. When I mentioned this to Emily, she asked if we would come to The Homestead and present our Christmas music.

  “My good friends often come to play and sing for me,” she assured me. “I can hear everything from the landing.”

  The others were willing after a proper invitation arrived. This was partly to see The Homestead, which aroused such speculation, and partly because it would please me to please my new friend.

  Lolly came to Northampton Street at six. By chance, we all owned long velvet dresses; Kate and I had deep pink, and Lolly’s was gold. Of course Kate outshone us, with her young lady’s figure and that arresting face. Father escorted us all. The houses we passed had candles in their windows, making halos on the snow. Aunt Helen and I competed to choose the most austere Puritan tree. Some had tinsel and stars and carvings; others had popcorn and cranberries only. I tucked this detail away for Emily.

  Miss Lavinia came to the door and greeted me like an old friend. She put our cloaks on the sea chest in the hall. The Austin Dickinsons invited us into the parlor; Mr. Edward Dickinson was grave and steely eyed. He examined us carefully, as if looking for flaws in merchandise. There was no visible Mrs. Dickinson Sr., and we were given no explanation for her absence. Is it poor health or poor manners that keeps her in her room? I wondered. The parlor, I noticed, was barely festive, with greens over the doors and mantel but — as I had expected — no ribbons and no tree.

  Sue Dickinson showed us a place to stand. I tried not to be nervous; after all, I had performed for far more people in our Shakespeare evenings in Barbados. There was something about the austerity of the place that made me feel so formal. But Lolly was excited — she always enjoyed being the center of attention — and Kate was serene as usual, simply enjoying an opportunity to sing among those she loved.

  We did “The First Noel” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.” Then, to please Father, we presented “Adeste Fidelis.” Kate sang “The Holly and the Ivy” alone; “What Child Is This” was her encore. We made not a single mistake, and everyone clapped. I could tell from Father’s face and Aunt Helen’s warm smile that we had made them proud. We drank Madeira like the grown-ups and ate Emily’s fruitcake, which was heavily laced with brandy. Success!

  I slipped out to the hall and looked up to see Emily, comfortable in a chair at the banister. She beckoned me closer, as conspiratorial as a spy.

  “Tell your cousin I once heard Jenny Lind in Northampton,” she whispered. “I judge your Kate to be far SUPERIOR to the Swedish Nightingale.”

  I was twice surprised: that Emily should have ever ventured so far and that she had such praise for Kate.

  Back in the parlor, I found Mrs. Austin waving her fan and her eyelashes at Father. I sensed a strong will, a character to be reckoned with. She could make a mincemeat pie of the Dickinson sisters and eat it for Christmas dinner. Perhaps Emily was right to be wary.

  “How you honor our little college in the woods, dear Professor Chase!” Sue Dickinson trilled. “Do you think we could lure Mr. Bulfinch here some evening to address our students?”

  My father bowed; he was enjoying this. “He will come at your summons, madam; you have my word.”

  She tipped her fan. It was as entertaining as watching a play — how could Emily bear to miss this? Kate came to stand by Father, and Mrs. Austin ran a light hand along her cheek. “Andrea del Sarto,” she murmured. Then Mrs. Austin turned brisk and businesslike.

  “Professor Chase, my husband and I are having a small housewarming Christmas night. Could I persuade you and Mrs. Sloan and the young ladies to attend? Our guests would love to hear their charming music. President Stearns and other faculty friends are coming. So are representatives of Amherst’s oldest families. This program would give them all so much pleasure!”

  Father was smoothly elusive. “My sister and I will have to confer. Our girls are very young, you know.”

  We rounded up Lolly, who had been enjoying a second slice of cake (or was that a third?), and told her about the invitation. Walking back to Amity Street, Kate, Lolly, and I pleaded for Father’s approval of the invitation. This would be our family’s first party in Amherst.

  When Father and Aunt Helen “conferred,” she disapproved. Mrs. Austin announced her social ambitions too nakedly for my aunt’s taste.

  “They’re not our sort, Jos. Why expose our girls to that rackety fast set?”

  “Helen, I may not want to see this crowd as a regular thing, but I’m going to look them over. I want a foot in a lot of doors!”

  “Perhaps the Wheelers won’t approve either.”

  “Helen, that’s ridiculous. Leslie Wheeler is in the Math Department. He’s not going to insult Edward Dickinson’s daughter-in-law. I mean this: I’m taking the girls.”

  So on Christmas night — without Aunt Helen — we crossed the village green and saw the constellation of lights that marked The Evergreens. Father laughed quietly at the rococo wreath of cherubs. Mrs. Austin opened the door, wearing décolleté black velvet with an enormous hoop.

  “Winterhalter should be here tonight to paint your portrait,” Father complimented our hostess.

  “The empress won’t let him out of Paris,” she bantered back.

  Mrs. Austin had made us three charming holly wreaths with pink and red ribbon streamers. She tied more ribbons on our recorders. The wreaths pricked a bit but probably less than a crown of thorns! I knew her abundant use of ribbon was a statement that I would again tuck away for Emily to decipher.

  Our hostess led us through a noisy, glittering parlor or two. We came to a music room, crowded with smiling, formally dressed strangers. We reached a bay window with green velvet hangings. Mrs. Austin introduced us clearly and graciously, each by her full name — and we started the first carol. Luckily, we began before I had a chance to get nervous!

  After our program there was real applause, as in a theater, and a buzz of compliments. I was puzzled that Mrs. Austin got as much praise for inviting us as we did for performing. Then Father escorted us to
the dining room, blazing with red candles in elaborate candelabra.

  The Yuletide feast featured a golden goose and oyster chowder, and bowls of steamed gingerbread pudding with creamy vanilla sauce. There were hot buttered cider and citrus-spiced tea, and more tarts, cakes, and jellied candies than I had ever seen in one place before. Kate rolled her eyes at me and at the extravagance of this non-Unitarian feast.

  I tried to remember everything, to tell Emily, but the food was deceptive. Everything was decorated and molded into geometric shapes, and concealed in aspic or whipped cream. At home and at York Stairs, you could always tell what you were eating.

  Father introduced me to President Stearns, who looked kindly and devout, and wore spectacles shaped like teardrops.

  “Are you Ethan Howland’s particular friend?” he asked me.

  “He is our architect,” I replied, confused. I liked Mr. Howland, but I wouldn’t describe him as my “particular friend.” “Do you mean Kate?” I asked.

  “Ah, the beauty.” President Stearns nodded. “Then you must be the clever person who got rid of the rock in the drawing room.”

  “Without once using gunpowder!” Father was delightful — relaxed and festive. He must have been happy to have new friends too.

  It was glorious to be teased and included. It was pleasant to walk home under high, flickering stars, warm inside with eggnog and compliments. I had been to a Christmas party and was already invited to next year’s. I had a family; I had friends and a school. Soon we would have our own house. As we began 1858, we were joining the circle that was Amherst.

  Book IV

  AMHERST

  1858

  Eighteen fifty-eight came down like a wolf on the fold. January attacked and stunned us. It was winter in its purest form, of an intensity new to me. In Boston there were very few places I needed to be, and haunted by the specter of consumption, we simply stayed indoors. The city seemed drab but manageable. Here in Amherst, winter was an invader, an occupying army. Every sunless day, the dark sky threatened or dropped snow. The defeated evergreens were burdened and bowed. All sound was muffled; even sleigh bells rang hollow and distant.