Afternoons with Emily (36 page)

Emily’s poem, a mild little lyric about spring fever, was paired with an effusion by Maude W. I skimmed the first few lines
of the latter’s filigree verses:

She came to meet me at the tryst,

The cool, night breeze around her blowing,

Her sunny hair in tresses flowing,

Glad laughter on the lips I kissed.

Each heart-throb thrilled with sudden pain,

As dimpled hands stretched forth to meet me,

As rosy mouth upturned to greet me —

I knew we ne’er should meet again.

I saw that this offering appeared on a full page of other poetic treats, all as sugary as the desserts at Mrs. Austin’s soirees.
I did not tell Emily, but I agreed that Mr. Bowles was insulting all women when he published such nonsense. This “poesy” should
never be seen except in frilled, hand-painted autograph albums. But my friend was so fierce in her miniature red-haired dignity
that I tried to distract her with her own wit.

“Tell me what you think Mr. Bowles is saying when he prints these silly verses.”

My dangling bait worked.

“He’s saying, ‘Look what my cat just wrote. Why, it’s almost human!’ ”

Also in April, Mr. and Mrs. Alan Harnett were joined by little Julian. I was told Mr. Harnett’s wife, Fanny, had an easy confinement
and delivery, which gave me hope that Kate’s ordeal in September would go as well. I also could not contain a smile, for with
the arrival of his child, I was at last replaced as the subject of Mr. Harnett’s prodigious pedagogical experiments.

This happy birth was followed in June by another, when Mr. and Mrs. Austin Dickinson rejoiced in the arrival of little Edward,
known as Ned. Mrs. Austin also had a short labor and an easy delivery, which gave me further confidence. I was amazed by Emily,
who overnight became a typical aunt — proud, parental, involved. She spoke of Ned again and again, planning his life and her
place in it.

“Sue has become so WORLDLY, I will have to see to spiritual matters for him,” she stated. “The Dickinson name is assured now!
I was never certain I would see Austin become a father. He told me Susan is — not DUTIFUL, as a wife.”

“Do all brothers and sisters discuss such matters?” I asked. I remembered my awkwardness in discussing such things with my
own dear sweet Kate.

“I cannot surmise what others do. Shall we read some more Tudor legends now?” This abrupt change of subject suggested that
perhaps Emily realized she had said too much. I was grateful; I didn’t want to hear any more such overly personal details.

“I see my own father in Henry IV,” Emily mused. “I know just how poor Prince Hal felt about all that UNFLAGGING moral indignation!”
She had given me a stunning gold-tooled collection of Shakespeare’s
History Plays
for Christmas, and we were working our way through them.

“Perhaps you need a Falstaff, Emily,” I teased her but did not suggest myself for the role.

It was summer now, time for my graduation. I had truly loved the academy — all the more by comparison with the inferior schools
I had visited for my report. Learning had been joyful for me.

The Howlands arrived from Springfield, and, to my delight, Mr. Harnett, Fanny, and baby Julian came up from New York. My former
tutor had always promised to see me graduate — and now he beamed fondly when I won some prizes and then again as he toasted
me at our evening reception in the temple. Father and I agreed that 1861 was no year for a ball.

Later, my mentor was more serious. “Miranda, what will you do now to engage that fine mind? You are living right on the eve
of a breakthrough in female education.” He went on to tell me that in only a few short years, several colleges for women would
open their doors. “There are big plans already for a collegiate institution in upstate New York. The money is coming from
a retired brewer, a Matthew Vassar, who is interested in making women better teachers. Vassar will be the first of its kind
— all female. But you cannot wait for it. We must find another path for you now. I will put my mind to it immediately.”

Dear Mr. Harnett knew me well. The Confederacy might be Davy’s great opponent; but there was no doubt that waiting idly for
his return would be mine.

Meanwhile I had to be available to Kate, so it was arranged that I spend the summer with various Chase cousins in Springfield
to be near Kate and help her care for Josey. There were seven married middle-aged Chases — each with a large young family,
visiting back and forth between adjoining houses. It was like finding oneself swimming among a school of friendly rollicking
whales! Kate’s little house was peaceful by comparison, and we talked as easily as ever while Josey slept in the golden summer
afternoons. One day in August, we were drowsing in the back garden. The sun and the humming cicadas had almost put us to sleep.
We spoke as if we were dreaming.

Like Mr. Harnett, Kate understood exactly about my feeling adrift — without Davy, without the academy, and without her.

“It’s lots easier when life hands you your duties, isn’t it?” Kate mused. “I was very lucky, I see that now. As soon as I
was ready for my real woman’s life to begin, then it did! And you, Miranda . . .” She waggled a finger at me. “Your need is
always to be heading somewhere, pointing in a definite direction. You must find a way to best spend this waiting time so it
will connect with your years after the war.”

“Father actually made me an appointment with Dean Griswold at the college,” I told her. Mr. Harnett had suggested it — the
plan that he had hoped would evolve for me. “Then the dean read my education paper and decided I could take one course at
a time at the college. They’ve always taken students from the academy — and I had Father’s tenure in my favor.

“Anyway, the dean said he’ll take me on trial. I must arrive early and sit in back and not wear hoops!” We giggled at the
thought of my seductive hoops inflaming the whole student body. Then our drowsy conversation took a different turn. “Kate,
how do you really feel about this baby?”

“Of course I’m afraid of the delivery. They told me I wouldn’t remember the pains, but I do — every single one. You feel as
if you are being split open.”

“Did you have to — start this baby?”

“Miranda, there are a hundred answers to that question! How do I explain it?” Her eyes grew distant; I imagined she was searching
for the right words for this delicate topic. “You and your husband both want — love, and then the wife thinks ahead and is
afraid of a baby, and the husband never does. And sometimes the wife forgets too — and then she’s sorry and angry later.”

This did not sound like a blissful state to be in. “Do you think there will be more babies after this one, Kate?”

“Unless Ethan changes a whole lot, there certainly will be others!” She frowned and sighed. “God makes a terrible bargain
with us, Miranda. He gives us this — joy, this way of showing love, and a license to use it . . . and then we pay with regret
and pain and danger. We take what . . .
precautions
. . . we feel we can, but nothing is foolproof.” She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m strong enough.”

We basked in the sun till Josey woke from his nap; then I started supper. I thought about everything Kate had said, especially
about the joy that married couples had, and about what it would be like to have a child with Davy. And with these thoughts
came once again the dread, the empty, hollow knowledge, the welcome numbness. I ate as an automaton would eat, and I did not
tell Kate, then or ever, that I didn’t think I would see Davy again.

Aunt Helen came to Springfield at the end of August. The doctor promised Kate he would use ether this time, so we were all
hoping for a shorter and easier experience than before — but when it came, it still seemed to me the most fearful of ordeals.
Kate was utterly helpless, owned and used by pain in relentless waves. I thought of the great impersonal storm rollers in
Barbados — cresting and breaking, cresting and breaking — as I held her desperate hands.

Helen Miranda Howland took twelve cruel hours to reach us. Dr. Smedley, as weary as Kate, said, “You must promise me, Mrs.
Howland — no more babies. This is the last baby for you.”

The leaves had long lost their gold and scarlet by the time I got back to Amherst, exhausted and shaken by Kate’s ordeal.
I had also turned eighteen. It was the time when a young woman’s fancy turned to thoughts of beaux and wedding bells and babies;
but while I had a beau, he was absent, and as I took my place again in the lecture hall, the old rhythms of a schoolgirl’s
day were the ones to which I conformed.

I chose medieval life as my course at the college. I wanted to learn more about the education and training of the highborn
children of those centuries. Both girls and boys were taken from their parents’ castles and sent to be raised by another noble
family — to learn the arts and skills of war and castle keeping from adults who were not their parents. They had teachers,
as such, in only Latin and music. This unusual tradition endured for centuries.

Mr. Chester, our instructor, treated me like any other student when he saw I was in his class only to study and not for social
activity. I chose “troubadours” as my research topic, and I lost myself in other wars: in the Crusades, Eleanor of Aquitaine,
and Bertran de Born. As I walked to class under the autumn trees, smelling the wood smoke, I felt nearer to happiness than
at any time since Davy went away. Study would be my salvation.

My new schedule had interrupted my regular Mondays with Emily, but when she was silent for several weeks, I became disturbed,
partly because I had not kept my promise to Mrs. Austin this summer. Aunt Helen had no news of her through her sewing circle,
so I called on Mrs. Austin. The Evergreens’ front door was autumn gold, with an overflowing cornucopia of harvest symbols.

“It’s true, I’ve not seen her in her garden lately,” Mrs. Austin told me. “And you know she never comes here! But there’s
been a steady stream of poems, I assure you. I wonder if their girl has time for her other work.”

“Has Emily seen Ned?”

“Yes, I’ve had him at The Homestead several times. She sends poems about him too — about his immortal soul, that is.”

“What should I do, Mrs. Austin?”

“Write her a note this minute, and her girl can take it to The Homestead the next time she delivers a poem. Now, Miranda,
what is the news of Davy?”

Sure enough, a return note came from Emily, asking me to call on Monday. I found her unusually animated, with a flush and
a sparkle I had not seen before. She was like a girl with a love letter, secretly elated.

“My dear Miranda, I have heard Kate’s good news! What a happy relief for your family! But then after that, no one told me
you were home again. Or if they did, it went past me.

“I have literally closed my eyes and ears to village doings these last months. I cannot AFFORD the time away from my writing.
These years will be the ZENITH of my career, and I dare not waste an hour of them!”

I heard a new, shrill edge of hysteria in her voice. This explained why she had not tried to renew our regular visits — she
was too preoccupied even for me.

“Does this mean you have decided to publish, Emily?”

She laughed merrily, flirtatiously. When in these good spirits, her round face, her dimples, her tip-tilted, sherry-colored
eyes, were most attractive.

“Don’t PUSH me, Miranda! These days I am writing as never before. Sometimes I feel like one of Mr. Mesmer’s mediums! Another
self seems to take hold of my pen, and I simply go where it leads. I don’t fight it; it writes better than I ever did.”

“Are you satisfied with these poems?” I was curious about her writing; was it indeed improving or was Emily becoming lost
in her miniaturized world?

“Some — not all.” She sighed even as she smiled. “I’ll rework them later. Right now, I’m being swept toward the sea. I just
have to let the SPATE carry me onward. Why, I hardly have time for my FRIENDS!”

“Who mails your letters?”

“You remember Nancy. She seems very closemouthed, and I care less and less about IDLE TALK. If people never see me, then the
worst that they can say is ‘She stays in her room.’ Meanwhile, I write my poems and work for IMMORTALITY. That is my BUSINESS;
even Lavinia says so! I will arrange my life so nothing and no one can interfere with my poetry.”

“Do you think your father will permit this isolation?” If she was rarely seeing me, it was likely that the few visitors she
allowed had dwindled down to nothing.

“You don’t understand the arrangement he and I have reached, Miranda dear. We have never spelled it out, but it’s clear as
ice between us: if I don’t create a scandal around the Dickinson name, then he will not force me into society, and we have
each kept our word. This may seem like MADNESS to others, but it suits the two of us very well.”

She handed me a small poem to keep and then sat at her desk with her back to me. I took that as my cue to leave. I read the
poem once I arrived at home.

Much Madness is divinest Sense —

To a discerning Eye —

Much Sense — the starkest Madness —

’Tis the Majority

In this, as All, prevail —

Assent — and you are sane —

Demur — you’re straightway dangerous —

And handled with a Chain —

She was right; her poetry was gaining strength. Emily’s desire for immortality just might come to pass.

Autumn of 1861 seemed to have more direction, more momentum for me than the summer. The leaf smoke brought the memories of
last fall’s bittersweet bonfires — being with Davy, walking, studying, singing around the flames — but I could recall them
with more equanimity, and even joy, remembering our happiness. Kate was safe with her little daughter; Emily was writing well,
steadily and sanely; and being a student had given a shape to my life again. I had the satisfaction of knowing my present
was once again attached to my future. If learning was to be the connection between my childhood and my adult years — well,
there was plenty to learn.