Afternoons with Emily (27 page)

“Miranda, do you know we are committing MORTAL SIN?”

My eyes widened with surprise. “No, Emily — how are we sinning?”

“We are TALKING from ROOM to ROOM! For the first time ever, in this house of constraint. Oh, we are a gloomy lot here, we
Dickinsons!” And from then on, Emily called to me deliberately, to spite her absent father’s rules.

After the dessert, we got down to business. In the large, dark dining room, we lit two lamps, borrowed from the parlor, and
labored in Emily’s Augean stables of verse. We sifted through piles of boxed pages and separated the finished poems, putting
the best version of each into one folder. The alternate versions went in a second folder, and the disconnected, unused lines
or phrases in a third. Then Emily sewed the poems we considered finished into little volumes, loosely stitched at the fold.
She would not explain how she grouped them. I could see some general categories — Nature, Love, Death — but I saw no chronology
or plan, though she assured me both were implicit.

Sometimes Emily asked for my help in choosing between two versions of a poem. I was gratified when she praised my taste. She
often related Sue’s comments or opinions; despite Emily’s disapproval of Mrs. Austin’s lavishly social lifestyle, she clearly
respected her sister-in-law’s literary and editorial talents. Emily had been sending Mrs. Austin most of her poetry for quite
some time. I enjoyed being included among those Emily trusted with her most prized possession — her words.

“My greatest influence is Isaac Watts, whose hymns I am sure you know and sing,” Emily offered. “He would admire your ear
for meter.”

I recognized the name; he was a pastor in the early 1700s, and I did indeed know his hymns.

“His verse is TAUT, without padding,” Emily continued. “He was a pure radical thinker, stripping away all the trimmings and
go-betweens around God. He has no flesh; he writes the BONES. He has a stark view that I share. Listen!” And in a child’s
clear treble, small and true, she sang, “O God, our help in ages past.”

“I know he wrote ‘Joy to the World,’ ” I said. “But what else did Watts write?”

“There’s my other favorite,” Emily replied. “ ‘Jesus Shall Reign.’ His book
Prosody
— that means the arrangement of poetry — is a ‘lantern to my footsteps.’ Sometimes I wonder why I write at all, when Watts
has said everything there is to say in what I just sang to you.”

On the days when I went home to launder my clothes, to catch up on news, and to answer Aunt Helen’s litany of questions, I
found it easy to tell Aunt Helen the pleasant truth about my visits.

“Working with Emily is really splendid! She treats me as her amanuensis, quite like an adult. I don’t think she is really
aware of the age difference between us — not even of her own age. She simply acts as if we are equals.”

“If she asks you, you can tell her she’s almost thirty — a very strange thirty. Tell her she’s about twice your age. I want
you to be very different when you reach thirty, Miranda.”

Aunt Helen, with her unselfishness and restraint and discipline, would never understand what I saw in Emily, who had none
of those qualities.

This was a happy time, visiting Emily. Our days settled into an easy, productive rhythm, filling the empty space left by Kate’s
departure. Until one day at the academy, when Lolly proposed that she should come and call on me at The Homestead.

“Lolly, it’s not my house,” I protested, surprised by the presumptuous request. “You know I can’t invite you there.”

“Then tell her to invite me. Tell her you miss me.” Lolly’s dark brown eyes grew coy, while her full lips pouted. “You never
join us in any of our outings anymore. So let me join you.” Now her eyes flashed with challenge.

I couldn’t understand her insistence until I remembered Emily’s own assessment of herself as the town mystery. Hadn’t she
implied my popularity at school was based in part on my proximity to “the myth”?

I shook my head. “Lolly, you can’t make me be rude. I won’t do it.”

Lolly, used to getting her way, glared at me. She seemed uncertain how to handle my surprising rebellion.

Then Alice Fay, one of Lolly’s followers, decided to gain Lolly’s favor by falling in line behind her.

“My mother says you’re Miss Emily’s ‘familiar,’ ” Alice sneered. “All her friends say that.”

The other girls all gasped in horror over Alice’s comment, so this must have been a fearful accusation — but one I didn’t
understand.

“Alice, be quiet!” Lolly wouldn’t allow anyone else to criticize me, which was loyalty of a sort. “Let’s go,” Lolly then commanded
her coterie, and I watched, still pondering the meaning of Alice’s insult, as they filed back inside the brick schoolhouse.

How was I to find out? I couldn’t ask Emily, certainly. As for Aunt Helen, the word “familiar” suggested those dark matters
she had already hinted at — just over the edge of my comprehension. But I had to know — and Mrs. Austin seemed my only hope.
Lolly and her set — girls I had thought of as my friends — avoided me all day, but that was a relief. I went directly to The
Evergreens from school, and I found Mrs. Austin and her gardener installing a huge reflecting sphere in her rose garden. It
suited the showy house.

“The birds love these in Italy,” she stated. “Let’s hope our proper Puritan birds are allowed to look in the mirror!” Then
she invited me in for lemonade and heard the reason for my call.

“I know the slander you fear, Miranda, and you can relax,” Mrs. Austin assured me. “A ‘familiar’ is a witch’s cat, her accomplice
in spells and magic. That vicious Alice Fay was saying that Emily is a witch, and you are her companion, helping her do ill.
The Archie Fays can just stop expecting any more invitations to The Evergreens.”

“So this isn’t anything that will hurt Emily?”

Mrs. Austin’s face softened into a dimpled smile. “What a loyal friend you are, Miranda! No, it’s impossible to hurt the Dickinsons
in Amherst; they own it. Someday they might hurt
themselves
— but only a Dickinson can damage the Dickinson name.”

She leaned toward me and patted my knee, expertly changing the subject.

“Now I want to hear about Emily’s manuscripts. How goes your work? Emily says you are a ‘ruthless Solomon’!”

“All I do is choose between versions of the same poem, so we can get all the ones together that are ready to publish.”

“And then what?” Mrs. Austin looked surprised. Of course, she would know of Emily’s resistance to publication even better
than I did.

I gave her a rueful smile. “Then comes the hard part — persuading Emily to show them to an editor.”

Mrs. Austin smiled back. “How I wish all her friends would help her the way you do. But she always gets so fatally
intense
and scares people away.”

“I don’t think it will happen with me, Mrs. Austin. I don’t really count as a person to Emily. I’m more . . . an
audience.
”

Mrs. Austin leaned back against the brocaded settee. “You are much wiser than I was at your age.” Then she leaned forward
and took my hand again. “And you are very much a
person
to me.”

I kissed her good-bye gratefully. I liked her shrewd honesty about Dickinson affairs.

One evening, in the second week of my stay at The Homestead, I returned from school to find Emily — tidy, formal Emily — rumpled
and trembling and distraught. I could tell she had been weeping for some time. Her round face was even rounder, her eyes slitted.
The curtains were closed tight, locking out the midafternoon light.

“Miranda, forgive me. Having Father away has recalled some poignant Homestead ghosts. We lived here my first ten years, you
know. Our family was so close in those days, just the four of us! With Father gone — gone rebuilding our name and fortune
— only then did we escape his rod and rule. Every morning of my childhood when he was home, the voice he used at the Statehouse
was trained steady on us. Every morning was Sunday school at the Dickinson house.”

Emily was coiled in her armchair like a baby as she related this; she unwound herself, rising slowly. “But in Father’s absence
we were at rest and free. Vinnie was mild and innocent then, and Austin could show his devotion to us without Father there
to scorn him for unmanly feelings. And Mother needn’t fear Father’s stormy moods. She used to play along with us.”

Her swollen eyes grew distant, as if they were looking inward at her past. “Mother was always laughing then. There never were
happier children when he was gone, not in this unhappy world.” Her gaze shifted to me. “Oh, Miranda, how could it all change
so much?”

I went to her at once. “It sounds as if you were a very happy family, Emily.” I handed her a small linen handkerchief, embroidered
like the spring outside with tiny blossoms, but she was so shaken and distressed that I persuaded her into bed in broad daylight.
I brought her tea, and fresh pillowcases smelling of lavender, and cologne pads for her swollen eyes — just as Aunt Helen
had done when I had my mumps. I saw her smile under the cooling cloths.

“What a delight to be COSSETED! It must be like this to have a mother.” Her mouth reset into a straight, quivering line. “I
never had a mother. I had only a merry playmate once, and now — a tragic child.” She gave a piteous half sob.

Not knowing what else to do, I held her hand until her deepening breaths told me she had slipped into sleep.

Careful not to disturb her, I unlaced my fingers and went to my temporary room, intending to study. But I was too distracted
by Emily’s revealing images of her childhood. I was moved by her merry little ghosts, but at the same time I glimpsed some
stunning truths. Emily recalled a carefree time, but I sensed something quite different behind her memories.

I saw a silly, irresponsible mother; an effeminate son; two possessive little sisters, overattached to their brother and competing
for his favor. I saw an Old Testament father looming over his awed family, breathing damnation and hellfire unless they followed
his Puritan rules. Whether this last was true or false, it was Emily’s own vision of Mr. Edward Dickinson.

I tiptoed down the stairs, back to our worktable. I picked up and began to read the verse fragments scattered about, obviously
just as Emily left them this morning until the upset took over. I searched the papers for the trigger but found none I could
recognize. Finally I pushed the papers away and sat a long time while daylight faded. This explained so much about this puzzling,
unhappy family: the mother, with her nervous complaints and obscure maladies; poor Vinnie, with her lingering angers toward
the parent she blamed for sending a great love away; and Austin, the son with everything except a father’s respect. Affection
was like bread, I mused. It was unnoticed until we starved, and then we dreamed of it, sang of it, hungered for it — and never
knew anything else but the longing for it.

And Emily, whose uneasy ambivalence toward her father drove her work. Unseen,
unknown,
to him, this daughter’s ferocious intellect was the only one in the family’s to rival his, yet it was unrecognized and unregarded.
She was neither his namesake nor his heir. How deep her misery, her anger. When she reproached God, it was her own vision
of Mr. Edward Dickinson that she addressed.

I was saddened and sympathetic, and felt the need to express this. Who better than to David Farwell? I had always felt defensive
on Emily’s behalf at home because I sensed the disapproval and begrudging acceptance of our friendship; I felt I could not
reveal my own ambivalence about Emily there. Davy would make no judgments and, in my letter, allow me to simply share these
thoughts. I wrote for the rest of the afternoon, and by the end of five pages, I felt unburdened and refreshed. Folding the
letter neatly, I slipped it into my pocket to be addressed and mailed from home. Then I cooked myself a simple supper; Emily
did not stir till morning.

At the end of a fortnight, we received word that the Dickinsons were leaving the New Hampshire resort and returning to Amherst.
Lavinia’s note implied that Mrs. Dickinson remained uncheered.

“Her sadness is a QUICKSAND,” Emily said, handing me a soapy dish.

“At least your mother tries to be part of your life,” I told her a little sharply. “Mine never did.”

Emily’s immediate understanding surprised me. She placed her wet hand on mine. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “You and I were equally
robbed, weren’t we? Most people take the miracle of a MOTHER entirely for granted.”

The next day Emily and I packed up my belongings, and I returned home. Our house on Amity Street seemed vivid and welcoming
to me after the formal reserve of The Homestead. “It seemed very impersonal,” I told Aunt Helen as I hung my dresses in my
wardrobe. “There was nothing that said, ‘He chose this. She likes that. We are reading these.’ ”

Father must have heard our conversation, because he came into my room, clearly amused. “So what does The Homestead tell you
instead, Miranda?”

“It says, ‘Are your feet clean? Then enter on probation. Remember our superior ancestors!’ ”

Father burst out laughing. “Bravo, Miranda! Your friend is a regular finishing school for style. Between Miss Dickinson’s
conversation and young Farwell’s letters, you’ll soon have a degree in advanced English usage.”

I didn’t think Father had noticed the letters.

I had never read a love letter except in novels, and ours were certainly not like those. Mostly Davy and I wrote about our
extreme mutual awareness, our insatiable interest in each other. We wanted to know all there was to tell — about the years
before we met.

“I intend to be a part of your life,” Davy wrote over and over. “Here is what I am like. I want you to know all about me,
just as I want to know you.” Answering a letter like this was very demanding. As I wrote to him, I could tell that talking
with Emily had made me more selective, more adept with image and metaphor — though a narrative for Emily was much easier than
introspection for Davy.