Afternoons with Emily (61 page)

“I would guess you were the victor,” I told her.

“That remains to be seen,” she replied.

“How is the work?” I asked. “I have not seen any of your latest poetry.”

Here she colored and went silent.

“There is only dross,” she said finally. Then she cleared her throat. “Dross and EMBRYOS,” she corrected herself, emphasizing
the second image, one of potential, as if she could not bear to admit to producing only “dross” to anyone, not even to herself.
“I have burned the dross and am now coddling the embryos to see if they will hatch.”

We visited for a pleasant hour more, then I excused myself. She seemed somehow more vague, less certain, as if she were adrift.
She did not press me to stay, and I hoped that she would find her voice again soon — I knew she dearly missed it. And I believed
I might have found the explanation for her increased — and odd — correspondence. But if her fallow period did not come to
an end soon, I worried what the result would be.

Perhaps, however, the situation was less serious than I imagined. I needed to speak to Mrs. Austin on foundation business;
perhaps she could reassure me that Emily had not stopped writing altogether.

When I called, Mrs. Austin answered the door herself. “Miranda, come in and tell me all your exciting news!” She bustled me
into her parlor.

“And how is that charming trustee of yours?” she asked.

I smiled. “Still charming. He sends his regards.”

She settled onto a settee and patted the spot beside her. “Now, my dear,” she said as I sat down. “Tell me. How can I be of
help to you?”

“As you know, we are opening our new school in New York,” I began. “We feel this is an ideal opportunity to draw attention
to our work.”

“Quite right,” she said approvingly.

“You know so many influential people,” I continued. “Your speaking to Mr. Bowles on our behalf was invaluable for the Amherst
school. Whom do you recommend we invite for our opening reception in New York?”

“Start right there! With Mr. Bowles,” she suggested. “He will know the appropriate journalists to write about your groundbreaking
school.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as she considered a plan of action. “I will send a note to Mrs. Vanderbilt for a list
of her friends who have young children, as well as possible patrons for the school.”

“That would be perfect,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

She patted my knee affectionately. “Consider it done.”

The cook entered with our tea and sandwiches, and Mrs. Austin and I chatted amiably about her children and Elena’s delight
in Barbados. Then I felt it was time to broach a more difficult topic.

“Sue,” I said cautiously, “how do you think Emily is?”

“I am not sure myself,” she admitted. “She sends notes occasionally, but I have not received any of her poetry in some time.”

This surprised me. As estranged as the two women had become over the years, I knew that Emily still sent her poems quite regularly.
It seemed that my concern was well founded.

“Do you think she has stopped writing?” I asked.

“I hope not,” Mrs. Austin said with great feeling. “If she has, that means all her hard-won solitude has no purpose.”

“You’re right,” I said. “If her seclusion has a creative source and reason, then it is justifiable and, by Emily’s standards,
productive and reasonable.” Thinking of an Emily without poetry was troubling indeed. “And her words, her observations, her
muse, all keep her company. If she is not writing, then she is simply, devastatingly, alone.”

“I am afraid you are right,” Mrs. Austin said. “Please let me know if you are able to glean any information.”

“I will,” I promised. Once again, I found myself in the position of being asked to watch over Emily. I would need to find
time for her.

One evening a few nights later, when Lolly was a guest for dinner, we had an impromptu sing-along, bringing back memories
of our carol singing when we were still schoolmates. Elena, listening, found it a matter for rounds of giggles that Lolly
and I, two grown-up ladies, were singing like children.

That same evening Lolly and I spent a long two hours over chamomile tea, reminiscing and thinking about how far we had come
— and how far we each intended to go.

“I am embarrassed that I was such a snob of a girl,” Lolly said. “And so bossy!”

“I’m grateful that you befriended me,” I told her.

“What a friend!” Lolly laughed. “I am surprised that you still speak to me.”

“You were finding your way,” I told her. “In a sense, I had always known I was different, so I felt less pressure to fit in.”

“That is true,” Lolly said. “It was something I always envied in you.”

This surprised me.

“I was probably my most vindictive when I was envying you the most,” she admitted.

“You were never vindictive,” I assured her. “Just occasionally . . .” I tried to find the right word.

“Spiteful?” Lolly offered.

“I would say ‘bratty’ and leave it at that.”

“And look at the two of us now,” Lolly said. “You with your wonderful foundation.”

“And you preparing for medical school!” We clinked teacups and sipped to our futures, my immediate one being a search for
adult pupils.

I spoke to the administrators of Amherst Academy, as well as of the college, for recommendations. This resulted in three enrollees:
Miss Carol Avery, an older, unmarried woman who ought to have been a fine and caring mother but who had had no opportunity;
Miss Kelly Porter, young and straight out of Amherst Academy, and not sure if she would teach immediately or go on to higher
education; and Miss Emma O’Neil, a recent immigrant from Ireland who had great hopes of securing a teaching position. The
latter did not want to go into service as so many of her countrywomen did upon arriving in America and knew that she would
need specialized training to overcome the prejudice many people had against the Irish. All three women had the temperament
for working with children and the openness and flexibility to learn to teach in a new, freer way.

We expected our inaugural enrollment in New York to be small, so Alan and his colleague Miss Jonstone would be adequate faculty
this first year. But as the weeks passed, I became worried that our first class would be comprised of two students: Alan’s
son Julian and Mabel Weaver, the four-year-old daughter of one of Alan’s former colleagues at Friends Seminary.

Luckily, Mrs. Austin was as good as her word. No, that is not praise enough: she was even better! Together she and I mailed
twenty-five invitations to the opening reception to her most influential friends and acquaintances, and my concerns about
enrollment began to dissipate.

“Many of these couples have grown-up children or no children at all,” she cautioned. “But they will want to know the very
latest trends in . . . well . . . anything!”

She smiled, and once again I was struck by her attractive self-awareness. Despite Emily’s insistence that her sister-in-law
was a self-serving, shallow social climber, I had seen none of that in Mrs. Austin. Yes, she enjoyed society and wielding
influence. But it seemed to expand her rather than diminish her or make her small and grasping.

Mrs. Austin included a personal note with each invitation, endorsing the work of the foundation. Her warm generosity touched
me. Carefully writing each of her perfect notes must have taken an entire afternoon.

“Once word gets around that not only I but the Whitneys and the Vanderbilts and the Beechers are planning to attend your reception,
others — who do have children — will surely follow.”

“I don’t know how to thank you for all your work on our behalf,” I told her.

“Make this day a success,” Mrs. Austin said. “That will be my reward.”

I had been so busy — contrived to be so busy — that I was able to keep from thinking of Roger, sometimes for hours at a time.
There was so much work to do in Amherst, and I needed to set time aside to take Elena to Springfield to visit her family.
Aunt Helen could have taken the cars with Elena, but once the school year started, we would have less time to share together.
With mixed feelings I wrote to Alan, and to Roger, explaining that I would not come to New York until the reception and the
opening of the school in September. More confusing still, Roger’s reply to my letter, in which he passed over my absence from
New York and congratulated me on my progress with the adult curriculum, was upsetting. Could the man not show a little disappointment
in his letters to me? I could not help but wonder if our separation was more difficult for me than it was for him, and though
I put his letter aside, it was hard to put aside these thoughts.

Emily was beginning to present a larger problem. I had seen her a few times; each meeting was amiable but not inspiring. Yet
after the last one, I received letter after letter from her. First there was an apology, which confused me, for try as I might
I could find no reason for her to imagine that I had been in any way offended or put out. I told her as much in a return note.
But each following letter implied that my reassurance was somehow not complete enough; she still worried that we were becoming
estranged. While it was true that we were no longer spending every Monday together as we had when I was a girl, we were certainly
seeing each other on as regular a basis as my schedule allowed. She herself had on several occasions chosen not to receive
me on a Monday, when she was fervently writing.

These letters seemed to be demanding something, but I could not guess what. Her writing was at its most opaque; the only obvious
thing in them was the need that leapt off the page. This was not the Emily Dickinson I had grown up knowing — that Emily was
demanding, yes, but never needy.

This neediness had been implied by Samuel Bowles, I reminded myself, when he had suggested that she would one day offend me.
Perhaps he had already experienced it in the letters he’d received from her over the years. This was not some new derangement,
as Mrs. Austin had once feared would befall Emily. This was simply a side she’d never revealed to me. Perhaps I had finally
achieved personhood in her eyes and was therefore worthy of such attention, as her various Mentors and correspondents before
me. But it still left me wondering how on earth I should reply.

Instead of puzzling over what words might reach her, I decided to see Emily in person. Walking cross lots to The Homestead,
I could feel the beginning of a change in the air; the breeze that ruffled my hair today was the first harbinger of autumn,
and I could feel the renewed briskness in my steps as energy surged after the repose of summer. My afternoon naps with Elena
were about to come to a close.

I reached The Homestead and knocked on the door. Lavinia answered, and I realized that they had still not found a permanent
girl to help with the household. Perhaps some of Emily’s current difficulty in writing was that she was now expected to participate
more in the housework, a role she detested. Her pride in her baking skill was her one domestic pleasure and was based upon
baking by choice rather than on demand.

“Hello, Lavinia,” I greeted the surprised woman. “I know Emily isn’t expecting me, but I was wondering if I could see her.”

Worry creased Lavinia’s forehead. “I don’t know. She has been in a mood for several days now.” She gave me a smile. “Perhaps
you can jolly her out of herself; she always enjoys seeing you.”

“Has she been ill?” I asked.

“No, she’s been . . .” Lavinia shrugged vaguely, unable or unwilling to describe Emily’s condition.

“May I see her?” Usually Lavinia simply sent me upstairs. She had never detained me before.

“I’ll just run up and check with her,” Lavinia said. “She has been very resentful of interruptions.”

I nodded. This reticence about company, even mine, might mean that Emily was back to her work and wanted to stay focused.
If so, that would be welcome news indeed.

Lavinia returned quickly. “I am afraid this is not a good time,” she told me apologetically.

“I would never intrude while she is writing,” I said.

“Writing?” Lavinia’s expression was both sad and puzzled. “She is simply staring out the window and does not want to be disturbed.”

“Are you certain she is not ill?” I asked again.

“Quite certain. She is quite fit. Just . . .” And again she shrugged.

“Will you tell Emily that I will be away for a bit and that I will call upon her when I return?”

“Of course,” Lavinia said and showed me out.

I walked home, unsettled by this news. I had seen Emily’s quicksilver moods in the past. Perhaps she would rouse from this
current state and return to her former productivity. I certainly hoped so.

As my train steamed through the hills and valleys of Massachusetts, then Connecticut, and finally New York, I sank into reverie
that was at times calm and at others so full of anxiety, passion, and anger that I thought the people in my compartment must
have considered me a madwoman. I had thrown myself headlong into work not only because the work needed to be done but because
it was easier to avoid dwelling upon the questions of my relationship with Roger. I had received a few more businesslike letters;
the last was folded away with other foundation correspondence in my portmanteau. After reiterating the final guest list for
the opening reception and mentioning inquiries he had received about regular “tour mornings” for visiting educators, he finished
with congratulations.

What your hard and thoughtful work — and Davy’s faith in you — have wrought is about to unfurl its brightest blossom. I look
forward very much to the reception for the New York Frazar Stearns Center and to celebrating the fruition of our work.

Was it foolish of me to dwell upon that one word, “celebrating,” and hope that Roger meant more than simply raising a glass
to toast Davy’s dear memory and the success of the school?

Alan had arranged to meet me at the station and was there, smiling, when I stepped off the train. Remembering my last trip,
Roger’s delay, and the joy of seeing him at last, I expected to feel less pleasure at this arrival. But as Alan took my hand,
I was filled with excitement at the work ahead of us. Could I have forgotten how much I cared for my first teacher and how
very glad I would be to see him? The sudden joy I felt was as uncomplicated as the clear blue September day.