Afternoons with Emily (50 page)

“Why — it’s Miss Randall!” I exclaimed with delight. “You sit with the children on the floor, and I’ve done so ever since!”
I was overjoyed at this reunion.

“First I saw your merry Leo alphabet and remembered your pretty name,” she related. “Then I read your inspiring article in
the
American Student.
Now I hope you will consider me for the job in your school, when it opens.”

“Miss Randall, I don’t have to
consider,
” I assured her. “The position is yours! I remember you as a truly gifted teacher, and it will be a privilege to work with
you. I will ask Mr. Austin Dickinson to draw up your contract.”

When Roger returned to Amherst, it was mid-October, and the Pelham Hills were aflame. He was entirely professional, with a
large number of papers to explain to me.

“Mr. Austin Dickinson expects us in his office tomorrow morning,” he informed me. “Your father will be witness. Then the foundation
funds for the projects may be released.”

That evening Ethan brought his building plans from Springfield, and he and Roger and I worked on them till midnight. I was
fascinated by the new process of architectural adaptation. Should we build window seats for classroom storage? Did we really
need that door?

It was marvelous to be working alongside these accomplished men, my opinions and ideas respected. I knew that mine was a unique
privilege — there were many women as educated as I who would never know such equality. At least, not yet.

After the ceremonial signings at noon, Mrs. Austin entertained us with an elegant luncheon at The Evergreens. I could see
she was very taken with my trustee and anxious to oblige him.

“Isn’t there some way the Dickinsons can help the foundation, Mr. Daniels? We are Miranda’s particular friends in Amherst,
you know,” she said, draping a paisley shawl loosely around her shoulders. Small diamond drops sparkled smartly from her ears.

“Your family could assist us greatly by spreading news of the foundation around the Connecticut Valley,” Roger informed her.

“Then we will do just that,” she declared, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “I see this as a very
local
story: Miranda, an Amherst girl; Davy, a student at the college; and the center for our faculty children named for another
Amherst hero. Everyone reads the
Republican,
” Mrs. Austin told Roger. “We will write our friend Sam Bowles and ask for his help.”

In the late afternoon, Roger asked me a little shyly to walk with him under the new canopy of maple glories and birch woods.
The slanting sun lit the sassafras and teaberry bushes along our path.

“I want to tell you about myself, Miranda — about what has led me here to this beautiful place and to this important day.”

“I would enjoy that,” I said.

He took my arm and we strolled along a rutted path, crowned by a fiery display of leaves.

“My parents were both from Portland, Maine,” Roger said. “My mother’s family was in lumber; Father was a lawyer. When I was
six, Mother died. Father decided to make a fresh start, and he brought me to Chicago — which was not long before a fort and
a prairie then, in 1840, but an expanding area. Chicago and I grew up together!”

I smiled, enjoying the image.

“I went to Harvard College,” he continued, “and then to Harvard Law School. I started practice with my father; we have our
own firm — Daniels, Jones, and Sellers. Most of our work concerns real estate transactions — deeds and leases, the instruments
by which property is conveyed.” Roger looked at me, I thought to see if I wished him to continue. I nodded, and he went on.

“Chicago has grown so quickly,” he said proudly, as if the city’s accomplishment were his own; it was endearing. “It is lucrative
work. For instance, the Farwells, who owned a good deal of the downtown lakefront, came to us for their contracts and advice.
That was how our families met.”

We continued to walk, and now Roger looked straight ahead, his eyes never straying toward me as they had earlier.

“I married Cecilia Blake of Lake Forest in ’57, when she was twenty-two and I was twenty-three. We went to Italy on our honeymoon.
Among her other talents, Cecilia was a pianist, and while we were there we were able, through letters of introduction, to
meet a composer she admired. She had often played his
Tuscan
Concerto, and she was quite thrilled to be able to speak with him and even to play for him.”

So that was it. Roger had taken me for a walk to confess that he was married. The size of my disappointment surprised me;
I hoped I managed to conceal it. Then I remembered he wore no ring. Surely there was further explanation ahead.

We had reached the rapids near Swift’s Bridge, and here Roger stopped speaking, staring fixedly into the water. Then he turned
to me, his eyes dark with pain.

“That is a memory I hold very dear, for it was one of the last times I saw Cecilia so happy — a beautiful young woman at the
height of her life and talent and fulfillment, and yes, I will say it, her love for me . . .”

His voice trailed off for a moment, then steadied. He seemed to have needed the time to gather strength to continue. “In Rome,
Cecilia contracted brain fever. It was,
is
— for she didn’t die — a most terrible illness, and for weeks I thought she would not survive. She, we, endured days of burning
fevers, delirium, and convulsions, for which the doctors could do nothing. At times she knew me, at times not, but always
she begged me to stay with her, to save her from death. And I did, or the doctors did, although sometimes now I wonder if
it was for the best. For eventually the illness affected her mind, reducing her to an infantile state from which she has never
recovered. Her personality became that of a four-year-old whose most coherent utterance now is a childish voice asking for
ice cream.” He drew in a deep breath. “And this from someone who had been the most beautiful, brilliant, and generous woman
I ever knew,” he finished.

I took his hand. “I am so very sorry,” I said, unable to be more articulate. This was truly a tragedy, and my mind, for a
few moments, would not react. There was more in common between us than I might have guessed, for, like me, Roger had traversed
peaks of pain. My heart went out to him — he was educated and established, a survivor of war, and yet . . . he was alone.
Then I asked him where Cecilia was now.

We started walking again. Roger seemed incapable of staying still as he related this terrible tale. “She stays with her parents
and a nurse in Lake Forest. She vaguely remembers her house but nothing else. She recognizes no one. She may live another
thirty years, but she will never change.” He took my arm to help me over a tracery of exposed roots crisscrossing the path.
“When the war came, I enlisted; the Union needed me, and the doctors said there was nothing more I could do for Cecilia. Last
spring, after Andersonville, I came back to Lake Forest. I found her in bed — she’s too heavy now to stand safely.

“I had brought her a present — a yellow plush chicken. She grabbed it from my hand and hugged it to her enormous bosom, crooning,
‘Roger.’ For just a moment I thought she knew me; then I understood. She had named the chicken ‘Roger.’ ”

We reached an overlook and saw the village commons lying low in the landscape. The tips of the trees in the hemlock forest
were bending to the southeast, away from the prevailing wind. The sun was starting to sink into the Pelham Hills, and we turned
to head back.

“Is there any way I can help you?” I asked.

“You have helped me already, my dear Miranda, by allowing me to unburden myself in this way. We have both known irretrievable
loss — and we are both trying to go on living, despite our grief.”

He had said nothing about the strong attraction between us. This was not conjecture; it was fact. I felt our extreme awareness
at this very moment, in the tingling elbow he held so correctly. But I knew we would not discuss this, and I searched for
a safe topic. “Please feel that you can always do so,” I said, hoping I did not sound too prim.

“Thank you,” he said. “You are very kind.”

But I did not feel kind. I felt lonelier than he ever could have guessed. I had family, a daughter, good friends through work
— but no one who wanted only myself and my company, as Davy had.

“Roger, let us agree to be friends as well as business associates. And I love letters — writing them and receiving them.”

I bent to pick up a perfect vermilion maple leaf and handed it to him, smiling. “This is my first message.”

He smiled back, and we arrived at my front door.

And so Roger wrote:

October 18, 1865

Sunday evening, with a rising autumn wind. I am sitting in my library, hearing the sounds of the restless lake. Usually I
avoid this room — it’s very lonely, with only the lake and my Harvard books for company. But tonight I feel your presence,
your interest, and your attention. Shall we talk a bit?

First of all, I believe that Alan Harnett — as your future headmaster — should resign from Friends at midyear and work for
the foundation full-time. He should be free for important decisions, large and small. We can and should pay him a third more
than his present salary. He will be our cornerstone.

Your long friendship with Alan is most impressive. I am jealous of his memories and of the years before I knew you. You told
me he once said that you and he and Davy were three partners. Well, there are four of us now!

I was pleased by his letter. I read twice the sentence about “the years before I knew you,” and as I did so I again felt his
hand under my elbow, guiding me as we walked. Remembering, a small warmth began to diffuse my cheeks, moving slowly through
my body. I was going to like corresponding with my adviser.

Mrs. Austin kept her promise. Mr. Samuel Bowles, dining at The Evergreens, heard about the Frazar Stearns Center and my new
and radical theories on primary education. He called at Amity Street to interview me for the
Springfield Republican.
I found him a handsome and compelling gallant, disturbingly intense. I could see why Emily fancied him as a beau; I almost
did myself.

“Now we must talk about our friend Emily,” he announced when the interview was over. “You mustn’t let her offend you.”

When I began to protest that she had not, he waved a hand to cut me off. “Of course she has,” he said with a chuckle. “And
if she hasn’t yet, she will. She inevitably does.”

I laughed and congratulated him on knowing his friend so well.

“Don’t let her put you out,” he continued. “She needs you. Now that she’s squared off against Sue, she needs every friend
she’s got — every one of us! Sue told me Emily lets you read her poetry. Can this be true?”

“Actually, she insists on it. And once, years ago, I helped her arrange it somewhat systematically.”

“Does she allow you to edit her, Miss Chase?”

“Not a single word — not the least
comma!
”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Now there’s the real loss — for her and for us too. You would think we were
cannibals,
nipping off her infant’s toe or editing his little pink ear!”

He smiled, showing his fine teeth and his dimples. What a flirt!

“This truly enrages the editor in me,” he confided. “I want to get my hands on a poem and bring it to its potential. I can
always see two pieces of writing at one and the same time: the one under my nose and the one that’s there and waiting
inside
— the one that needs shaping and turning and editing to be revealed!”

“Mr. Bowles, did you know Michelangelo had the same thought?”

“Why, of course,” he replied. “And I’ll use it in my piece about you. ‘Amherst Educator Sees Inner Value in Her Students!’
”

“I would prefer it without the plural. Why not ‘Each Child’s Unique Value’ instead?”

“Miss Chase, you’re
right.
Oh, how our poor Emily could profit from you as an editor! I see her as a genuinely tragic figure, out of step with the times.
She just doesn’t fit in
anywhere.
”

“Anywhere, Mr. Bowles?” I didn’t disagree with him but had hoped perhaps as an editor he might have a broader perspective.

“Her best writing is — well, simply too big to handle. It asks too much of one! And as for the worst of her stuff — it’s merely
harmless. It fits in perfectly with those rosebuds and lockets that I have to print every week. I do this as a public service,
you know, Miss Chase — to keep up the spirits of the local ladies.”

I shook my head disapprovingly at this statement. “Emily’s right; you
are
condescending toward women writers.”

“But not toward
genius,
Miss Chase! Emily has flooded me with poems for about ten years now. Sometimes there’s a phrase or two — or even a whole
verse — that stuns me like a
blow.
I am struck in the solar plexus; I cry, ‘OOF!’ ” He collapsed into the sofa, rolling his beautiful black eyes at me.

I smiled at his display and also at the truth of what he described. “I’ve had that same reaction, often.”

He sat back up again. “But then the rest of the poem is so inferior, so
second-rate.
What should I do? I can’t publish it as it is, and she won’t let me touch it.”

“Does her refusal to accept editing hold her back professionally, Mr. Bowles?”

“It effaces her. She is
invisible.
I could make her the leading woman poet of the century, another Elizabeth Barrett — if she would let me. That’s why I call
her Queen Recluse, for her maddening royal ways!”

Mr. Bowles kissed my hand and swashbuckled away, leaving my parlor a little empty. His charm and intensity had made him a
legendary Don Juan all over the valley. I had heard his name linked to Mrs. Austin’s, who was said to relish it, and to a
young cousin’s, Maria Whitney, who denied it. Now he had just made me feel that he would treasure every moment of our talk,
that it was more than everyday business to him. But of course that’s just what he did to Emily!