Afternoons with Emily Page 15

  “What happened?” I wished I had lines to read. I had never played a confidante; I didn’t know how.

  “A rare INTIMACY. Not what the world would acknowledge, but OUR OWN. He will be my shepherd, guiding and guarding me always — even though we may not meet again. He will be my MASTER forever.”

  This was romantic and thrilling — but what exactly was Emily telling me? That she has a lover? Or once had a lover? That he died? That he was married, or imprisoned? And what of the dead Mentor, Newton? Had his attachment to her deepened to that of a lover’s before death cruelly claimed him?

  Whatever it was, I recognized the singular honor of her confidences. I would certainly not reveal my unworldliness by asking a lot of childish questions — so I waited.

  “So now you know my INNERMOST secrets, Miranda, and now you CANNOT refuse my favor. My happiness depends on it — and on you.”

  “Of course I’ll help you, Emily.”

  “Now that I have confined my bodily self, I need my spiritual freedom to SURVIVE. I need to voyage freely beyond my boundaries, toward greater minds than my own. I need your help — to reach and touch my FRIENDS.”

  Of course, she meant her correspondence. In a sense, her letters — from the authors and ministers and editors — were like my nursery visits from Mr. Harnett. Emily and I had both been marooned, each in our way, with this single vital link to the world outside. But my isolation had been involuntary, while hers was chosen, devised and perfected by Emily herself.

  When I did not answer her, Emily became a pitiful Dickens waif, wringing her hands — still dusted with flour. My hard heart melted. I obeyed the crack of the whip; I leapt to my perch in the ring.

  “All right, Emily. I’ll mail your letters.”

  She nodded with a satisfied smile, then stood and paced the room. “I knew you would see this was NECESSARY. I have never liked to ask Lavinia, who PRIES — and the hired girls really can’t be expected to know the VALUE of a letter. I will have them ready for you every Monday. Many personages in high places will be obliged to you, Miranda.”

  Astonishing. She went from waif to empress in under a minute.

  Spring washed across Amherst like a Barbados breeze. The delicate blown petals moved in the wind like spray. Uncle Thomas, used to May in Boston, was lost in admiration and prolonged his visit. He and Father and I often walked in the afternoon, following the progress on our house.

  “The workmen say we’ll be in by midsummer,” Father told us. “But Ethan predicts September.”

  “I should go home next week,” said Uncle Thomas. “I’ll come back when you’ve moved in. I’ll help you with your library.”

  “You must stay over graduation, Tom,” Father insisted. “I know you’ll get a card to the Edward Dickinson reception. It’s the high point of the week. He entertains all the nabobs under a tent in The Homestead garden, and I hear he spreads himself for once.”

  I wondered if Emily would make an appearance at her father’s party. It was difficult to imagine her there yet even more unlikely that her father would allow her to be absent.

  “Is that the handsome yellow Federal on the hill?” Uncle Thomas asked. “How my father would have loved that ‘solid citizen’ appearance.”

  “The Dickinsons are certainly ‘solid citizens’ — when they aren’t paupers!” Father laughed.

  This caught my attention: the lofty Dickinsons living in poverty? “What do you mean, Father?” I asked.

  “Yes, Jos,” Uncle Thomas seconded. “I sense a story here.”

  “Oh, there is one indeed,” Father replied. “Samuel Dickinson, the old patriarch, built The Homestead around 1813. He also founded Amherst College and poured several fortunes into it. Finally he went bankrupt for its sake. He left the east and died as a horseback preacher somewhere in Ohio.

  “His son Edward, the present squire, was stuck with his father’s debts. He had to sell The Homestead and move his family into rented lodgings. It must have been a painful comedown, for such a proud man.”

  This was all news to me but explained many of Emily’s cryptic remarks. Emily kept her secrets with the same calculation as she doled out her confessions. And what about Father? I gave him a sidelong glance. I would have to reconsider my notion that he was simply a befuddled professor. His nose may have been mostly in a book, but his ears had become sails that caught every passing wind. If I stayed quiet, I could learn much, I realized. Emily had taught me to listen.

  Uncle Thomas was perplexed. “But, Jos — I thought you just said that he had sold the house.”

  “He did — and for years he ate humble pie, and not much else! He was a lawyer and was very political — always with a seat in the legislature, making deals. He’s a very able man. Then in the early ’50s, he brought the railroad and the telegraph to Amherst, and his money came rolling back. He repurchased The Homestead and added cupolas and conservatories and other costly modern trimmings — just to remind the village the royal family was back in residence! Squire Dickinson runs the First Congregational Church, the college, and the town — it’s all his domain.”

  “What an American story!” Uncle Thomas was delighted. “Riches to rags to riches again. I love it.”

  “The Dickinsons have been here in Amherst as ‘solid citizens’ for two hundred years. It’s old money restored and the old name repolished.”

  “What is the present Squire Dickinson like these days?”

  Father smiled at Uncle Thomas and me. “One senses a certain satisfaction in what Squire Edward has accomplished, working with his partner, God.”

  I laughed out loud. “Father, that’s exactly the sort of thing Emily says!”

  Father gave me a grin. “Does she? Well, pride is often hard on the bystanders.”

  That evening, I related all my new Dickinson knowledge to Kate, who had been as puzzled as I over the Dickinson mythology. I found I was a little less critical of my friend’s ways, now that I knew her family history. All that instability — no wonder she kept her life so closely contained within that hard-won homestead.

  At first, I believed my new position as Emily’s letter carrier was something she and I would never discuss — an unspoken understanding. She had, after all, entrusted me to the task because she feared “prying eyes.” I discovered instead that Emily liked to be asked about the letters I mailed and the distinguished men she wrote to. She enjoyed recounting her social life, limited though it was to paper.

  There was always a stack waiting for me; Emily must have spent hours each week writing to a wide-ranging audience. Knowing her exacting nature, I knew this meant she sacrificed reams of paper on a near daily basis.

  “Samuel Bowles, Esquire,” I read as I picked up a thick cream-colored envelope from the silver letter tray. “Who is he?”

  “He is my INTIMATE friend,” she said. “He is said to be the most brilliant young editor in the country. He has made the Springfield Republican famous.”

  I knew the newspaper; Father read it at home.

  “We are studying Emerson and Thoreau together. I myself meet him in the PARLOR!”

  She seemed to expect congratulations for this, that she actually met with someone face-to-face, and a gentleman at that! I wasn’t quite sure I believed her. “Do you really receive him, Emily?”

  “Oh, never alone. I do not want to cause trouble in his marriage. His wife is unstable and — POSSESSIVE. One hears she resents his admiring even a FRIEND.”

  I held up another envelope. “And Dr. and Mrs. Holland? I see they’re in Springfield too.”

  “My dearest and closest friends! He’s a journalist too. His wife, Elizabeth, is very WISE. She knows I would take her advice, so she does not give it.”

  With Emily’s copious output, I wondered if she was also a recipient. “Do all your correspondents write back?”

  “Most do. I am the gadfly they have to SWAT!”

  There were often thick envelopes for Reverend Charles Wadsworth, Arch Street Presbyterian Church, Phil
adelphia. Emily’s only Philadelphia addressee. I assumed this was her other Master, and accordingly alive. As she had never spoken of him again, I did not ask.

  One May Monday, as I left Emily, she slipped a note in the pocket of my pinafore. I glanced at her, startled by the close touch as well as the secretive gesture.

  “I want you to have this,” she whispered. “But we won’t discuss it.” She stepped back and gave me a smile. “See you next week.”

  Curious, I couldn’t wait to examine the note, wondering what Emily could write but couldn’t say. I unfolded the crisp paper on my walk home. The sun shone brightly, and I had to squint a bit to read.

  I never lost as much but twice,

  And that was in the sod.

  Twice have I stood a beggar

  Before the door of God!

  Angels — twice descending

  Reimbursed my store —

  Burglar! Banker — Father!

  I am poor once more!

  It was a poem, I supposed, but a far cry from Keats or Browning. It seemed plain and simple at first, but a second reading revealed an assault of furious invective toward God and Mr. Dickinson — who seemed to be the same person.

  I was thankful Emily had forbidden discussion of this. What could I say to her? I slipped it back into my pocket and hurried home.

  My end-of-school ceremony, and Kate’s graduation, took place on a glorious day in May. After the convocation, Kate sang Mozart’s Ave Verum. I was lost in awe and wonder after hearing that voice from another world. Where did Kate get such faith, such inspiration? She was just my own dear cousin, a merry, absentminded New England girl who lost her watch and burned the fudge. But her voice! When she sang the angels stopped to listen.

  “Oh!” I let out a little exclamation. Lolly had poked me! I turned to her, puzzled.

  “It’s you,” she hissed. “Stand up.”

  “What?” Then I understood! The headmaster had called my name for the history prize. When I went up to the rostrum to collect it, he awarded me two more: the medal for Latin and the one for English literature.

  I gave Father a wide smile, which I hoped masked my surprise. I would have much to write Miss Adelaide and Mr. Harnett that evening! The history prize was a collection of medieval ballads, which Emily and I could read aloud. The other two were medals, with my name engraved. They would make handsome paperweights, for I always had several projects going at once.

  As I watched the finishing students receiving their diplomas, I considered the vastly different prospects of the boys and the girls. Every single boy was going on to college — some to Yale or Williams or Wesleyan, most to Amherst. However, only one girl — Kate, who would continue with her music — had plans for enlarging her interests and her future. Kate’s friends, half developed and half educated, were simply stopped short. No matter how intelligent and studious they might have been, whatever they had learned so far would have to last them a lifetime. They would not be going on.

  “Go on looking and thinking,” Miss Adelaide wrote me when I described these unsettling ideas. “I hope that writing to me will help clarify your thoughts.”

  “I’m glad you’re putting your good mind to use over a girl’s future,” Mr. Harnett commented reassuringly, encouragingly. “There’s no need for your education to end with the academy, you know.”

  During my next Monday visit with Emily, I brought up just this subject. We talked about a woman’s few opportunities, compared to a man’s freedom of choice.

  “When I left the academy,” Emily recalled, “all my friends took up the poor through the sewing circle at church. What virtuous ENERGY they had! All the poor were enriched, the cold warmed, the warm cooled, the hungry fed, the thirsty sated. I never went, not once, and my hard-heartedness drew me many prayers. I was never ever forgiven!”

  “So what did you do instead?” I seized this mood of recollection. Emily would talk abstractions all day, but she seldom offered details of her actual growing up.

  “I went to boarding school in Mount Holyoke, for a very BRIEF year. That was where they tried to save my soul. I had to fight them off! Everyone but me SURRENDERED to the evangelists. That was why I had to meet you when I heard you too had ESCAPED!”

  “Did you like the boarding school?”

  “The studies were the finest, but the rules were a cross between a convent and an ORPHANAGE! I liked the work, of course — but not that unnatural life. We had to make public APOLOGIES all day long!”

  This would never have suited Emily. “So what did you do after that?”

  “Then there came an EPIDEMIC of weddings, but I never seemed to catch the disease. Sue was the last of our crowd to marry. Did you know she taught school in Baltimore before she married Austin?”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that. Would you have liked teaching, Emily?”

  “I wouldn’t have lasted a week!” She was honest and rueful. “I cannot bear to be HANDLED, even by little hands. And I care only for children who love fine books and fine language — so who would teach all the OTHERS? Still, you might say I have been training myself to be a teacher of sorts,” Emily said.

  She went to the south window and looked out over a dazzling June Amherst. The sky was a pure cerulean dome, and there were two vermilion cardinals at the bird feeder. Emily had taught me awareness of the natural patterns around us.

  “I am working for POWER, in and through my poetry, you know. I intend to gain DOMINION through ideas. That has always been my aim. When my skills are sufficient, then I will have INFLUENCE and POWER! You are the only person who has seen me refining my talent. Now I am telling you WHY. I want to teach through poetry.”

  I thought of the poems in my cedar box, known only to me and influencing no one. “Then you must publish, Emily. You must be known! You can’t have power over people’s minds unless your poems are read.”

  “They’ll be read,” she assured me serenely. “Don’t worry, people will be reading my poetry a CENTURY from now. There’s no hurry.”

  A day later, a note arrived for me from The Evergreens. Mrs. Austin Dickinson was inviting me for “lemonade and congratulations on a splendid academic showing.”

  “What do you hear from Versailles?” inquired my Puritan aunt, offended by the heavy parchment envelope and its crested seal.

  “She has asked to receive me. It’s very nice of her.” I was always confused by the disparity between Mrs. Austin’s mannered ways and the warm friendship I sensed underneath her elegance.

  When I went to The Evergreens, I was intrigued by the fleshy red plants growing at the front entrance — more like meat than flowers. Mrs. Austin opened the door herself, modish in beige lawn and Battenberg lace. Her hair was à la Eugénie — a chignon of curls that Kate and I had tried in vain to re-create. She wore diamond earrings that would probably be considered unsuitable for the daytime, but I would not pass this particular tidbit on to Emily. It would be cruel to mock my hostess, who had dressed with such care to receive me.

  I felt a bit nervous, wondering what we would talk about, until I remembered Emily’s references to Mrs. Austin’s literary interests and insights. We could talk about books!

  “Miranda dear, you should be wearing your victor’s crown,” Mrs. Austin greeted me. “In Athens, the winners wore wreaths of violets. That would be nice with your eyes.”

  I followed her into the library. She had put away some satin swags and velvet dadoes for the summer, but she had added a few busts in marble and bronze, lest the room should be less suffocating.

  “We’ll have claret lemonade and pound cake,” she declared. We settled on the tufted settee. I took a cautious sip; I’d never had claret.

  “It’s delicious,” I said. I carefully placed the glass on the side table, nervous I might break it. It was covered in a fine gold filigree. Was she using her best to receive me or was this extravagance an everyday occurrence?

  “For our scholar,” she said with a smile. She handed me a present, Emerson’s Collect
ed Poems.

  “Both Emily and I admire Emerson,” I told Mrs. Austin. “I have learned ‘The Mountain and the Squirrel’ by heart. I thank you most kindly.”

  “Why, that is one of my favorites, I vow!” she exclaimed. “The next time Mr. Emerson comes to The Evergreens, I will ask him to inscribe your book. He adores young people.”

  Then she took up her embroidery hoop. “You and Emily discuss books, do you?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes. We talk about poetry and novels and Shakespeare. We don’t always agree and sometimes get into great debates over single words!”

  Mrs. Austin smiled a knowing smile and nodded. “That sounds like Emily.” She gave me a sidelong look from under her lashes. “Do you discuss other things as well?”

  I cut a piece of my pound cake carefully with the side of my fork. I didn’t want to get crumbs on my dress or the settee. “Oh, yes, we do,” I said.

  “Like what?” Her voice sounded casual, but her expression was unreadable. I could tell I was being led, but I was not sure where.

  “We talk about our friendships.” This was the truth and also vague enough to feel neutral.

  “Ah.” Mrs. Austin put aside her sewing and gave me a direct gaze. “Now, Miranda, you and I must talk.”

  I set down my pound cake. My heart fluttered a bit; I had no idea how to prepare for what might be coming next.

  “My dear Miranda, we would never ask anything dishonorable of you. But Austin and I have excellent reason for our concern just now.”

  What could she possibly ask of me? “You know I would help you if I could,” I assured her. “Though I can’t think of how I could be of use.”

  She rose and began to circle the room, the lovely skirt floating gently after her. “I must have your promise that what I am about to share with you will be treated with the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course,” I said, then wished immediately I had not. I had no idea what she’d be telling me; what if I needed help in understanding what to do? Grown-ups should not confide in people my age.