Afternoons with Emily (20 page)

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
Collected 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.

Mrs. Austin sighed and returned to her chair. She refilled our glasses before she spoke again. “We have a famous friend in
Springfield, very much in the public eye. He is a true gallant; every woman he meets counts him as a conquest. His wife is
quite used to his foolishness and doesn’t really mind it. What she does mind is Emily believing his nonsense. Encouraging
it. Exploiting it.”

Mrs. Austin tapped the arm of the settee with some impatience. Emily’s behavior seemed to bother her as much as it did the
gentleman’s wife. “Emily treats this gentleman like a beau, indeed, like a declared
suitor!
She is actually
possessive
about him, Miranda.”

Then I realized Mrs. Austin was talking about Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Bowles, but I remained silent. I could keep confidences
too.

“I know that Emily writes him often, although this didn’t used to worry me,” Mrs. Austin continued.

So the letters I carried were not strictly secret. Perhaps Emily discussed them with Mrs. Austin; perhaps, once, Sue mailed
them for Emily herself. That could explain why I was now necessary — Mrs. Austin may have tried to discourage Emily from writing
so often.

“They worry you now?” I asked.

She didn’t respond directly to my question and instead circled around it. This was a trait she and Emily shared.

“Some time ago, when Emily was visiting in Philadelphia, she went to church and heard a sermon, a very fine one, I gather.
From her pew, then and there, Emily fell in love with the minister! Emily is always so
excessive.
”

The back of my neck tingled. I had sent envelopes to Philadelphia, undoubtedly to this very person. But what did any of this
have to do with Samuel Bowles?

Mrs. Austin must have sensed my bewilderment. “For you to feel the full force of my concern about Emily’s . . .
excesses
. . . I need to go back a bit. Miranda, these extraordinary reactions are part of Emily’s nature. It is a pattern. Some years
ago, a young cousin died of consumption. She and Emily had been friendly but no more than that. Yet after her death, Emily
went into a morbid decline. She mourned for an unseemly long time, months and months. Has Emily spoken of her and this tragic
loss?”

“If you mean her cousin Emily, then yes, she has.”

“Most of that friendship occurred in our Emily’s mind after the cousin was buried! She has these violent, inappropriate emotions
all prepared, ready and waiting — and she just
decants
them onto whoever or whatever the situation presents.” She shook her head, then gave me a searching look. “Has she told you
about young Ben Newton dying?”

“Yes,” I whispered reluctantly.

“That is another example of Emily exaggerating things.” She stood again and paced, as if this topic agitated her. I wished
I could join her in her fevered perambulation, my own feelings were so stirred. But instead I sat, trapped on the settee.

“Ben was a perfectly charming young lawyer in Mr. Dickinson’s office some years ago. He paid Emily compliments, gave her books,
told her how talented she was. After all, she was the boss’s daughter! They had a flirtatious good time together, but he was
never
her Mentor, nor were they
ever
sweethearts.”

I had to protest. “How can you be sure of that, Mrs. Austin?”

“Because Ben married Sarah Rugg, that’s how I’m sure! Did Emily tell you that?” Mrs. Austin paused for a heartbeat. “I daresay
she did not. Ben died two years later, and from the way Emily emoted, you would have thought
she
had been widowed. It was, well, embarrassing. There was
talk
in the village.”

My head spun over these revelations of Emily’s distortions, but Mrs. Austin was not done with me yet.

“Just a bit more, Miranda. Now we come to the present day. My friend in Springfield — the wife whom Emily offends with her
dangerous make-believe romancing — has a friend in Philadelphia. This Philadelphia woman says that Emily is now writing to
a minister, the very same one whose sermon she heard there. Emily’s letters to this man, I gather, are very emotional, very
unsuitable.
The actual word she used was
‘scandalous.’

“Unless Emily stops her imaginary flirtation with Mr. Bowles, Mrs. Bowles will tell Mr. Dickinson about the letters to that
Philadelphia minister. And then we’ll all be in serious trouble.”

Intrigue upon intrigue. These adults were all behaving in such a complicated fashion. I wondered what kind of trouble Mrs.
Austin was referring to and wondered as well what harm there was in letters. Emily never saw anyone — she must be the safest
rival a wife could ever have.

Then I remembered — Samuel Bowles was one of the few gentlemen Emily did see in person. And scandal of any type could be ruinous
for the Dickinson family.