Afternoons with Emily (16 page)

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 Puritan 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.

AMHERST

1858

E
ighteen 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.

School was closed. I missed Miss Lowe, my classmates, the hum and shuffle in the halls. When Father rented a sleigh on Monday
to go to his college office, he agreed to drop me off at Emily’s. Because of the weather, it had been a few weeks since our
last meeting. I was astonished at her delight in seeing me. Perhaps I was a more significant event in her schedule than I
knew.

“How did you manage to leave your igloo?” Emily cried. “Oh, Miranda, I need you for my snowdrop — my reminder there is LIFE
under all this! January has always been my nadir.”

“I’ve been lonely too,” I responded, removing my coat. I stomped my feet to knock off more snow. “I miss Lolly, though we
try to walk back and forth when we can. And I’ve missed you, Emily.” The moment I said it I realized it was true. Emily’s
company was like none other that I enjoyed. I loved Aunt Helen and Kate, and I enjoyed the fun of Lolly and the girls at school.
But my visits with Emily were different. She was a singular experience, an arena in which to test words and concepts, a companion
in the way characters in my favorite books were.

“I never said I was lonely,” Emily corrected me. “I’ve spent years learning to be a solitary, you know. But January in Amherst
is very like a tomb, a white TOMB — and there will be no snowdrops calling in there.”

Her image amused me; it seemed so overly dramatic. “I know what you mean, Emily. I don’t like it when it’s too quiet either.”
I suppressed a smile. “But it doesn’t make me think about
death.
”

“Sometimes that’s all I think about.” Emily sighed and looked out at the hedge, sagging under its weight of snow. “Death has
always been close by. I’ve known it almost as long as I have known myself.”

This surprised me — from what I knew of the family, all were living. There were no lost siblings in this household as there
were in so many other families.

“When I was a very small girl, not yet three, I spent a spring in Monson with my aunt, Mother’s sister,” Emily explained.
“That was truly a HOUSE OF DEATH, Miranda.

“My uncle had just died of consumption. His wife, my aunt, was dying too, and one of their little children had it. And my
own dear cousin, who was like a sister to me, was infected too. She died while we were still at school together.”

I sat riveted, no longer feeling the cold in my feet. This could be my own story. This was an experience Emily and I shared.

“Everyone was more or less dying,” Emily continued. “In that house, Death had always just left the room — but he hadn’t gone
far. And there was a custom in those days that no dying person should ever be left alone. We called it ‘keeping watch.’ So
I often sat up at night with someone who was dying, and once that person was a CORPSE by morning. I was four years old.”

“How terrible for a young child!” I exclaimed, a bit more passionately than I intended.

Emily gave me a soft smile. “January always reminds me of that death-in-life time.”

I was moved by her story, but for some reason I chose not to confide that consumption stalked my house too. Something held
me back. Perhaps it was the relish with which Emily seemed to regard death’s hovering presence.

Emily studied me a moment longer. “I am not very old — did you know I am twenty-seven? But I have already lost three beloveds
from my dearest CIRCLE. These three are with me every day. I see them more clearly than those who remain.”