Afternoons with Emily

by Rose MacMurray

  “Miranda, we must stop this. I must find a way.”

  “I do have one idea,” I told her. “It came to me as I ran here. Emily respects Dr. and Mrs. Holland. She has often said what wise advice they give her.”

  Mrs. Austin stopped pacing and turned toward me. I could see her thinking, mulling over the idea, her eyes never leaving mine. “Miranda, I do believe you’re right! They are the only old friends she still sees, actually sees. And Dr. Holland is very sophisticated, very worldly; Emily admires that. He could tell her a man’s point of view in an affair like this, and she’d listen to him.” She nodded decisively. “Yes. Austin will be on the milk train to Springfield in the morning.”

  She crossed to me and took my hand in hers. Then she pulled me into a warm embrace, squeezing my shoulders as she spoke. “How can we thank you, you dear, sensible child?”

  I had never liked her as much as I did that afternoon. I knew she was protecting the whole Dickinson family from scandal, but she was genuinely concerned for Emily too. She feared a “keeper” for Emily as much as I did.

  “How old are you now, Miranda?” Mrs. Austin asked as she walked me to the door.

  “I was fifteen in September,” I replied.

  “Fifteen — and yet our whole family depends on you! You really are a true friend to Emily. The Dickinsons won’t forget this.”

  The rest of the week I had trouble sleeping, difficulty concentrating in school. What if my idea didn’t work? The following Monday, Emily mentioned a delightful surprise visit from friends in Springfield who had made the journey solely to see her. I went on mailing her letters and noticed none to Philadelphia. Talk of travel had evaporated from her conversation. That was all I knew. On the rare occasions I saw Mrs. Austin — at church, leaving Emily’s as I entered, in her garden — we never spoke of what had nearly happened, but we exchanged a complicated look: concern, gratitude, and promise. I did not intend to fail either woman.

  Since that very first undiscussed poem, Emily had been giving me poems, one or two a month. She simply handed them to me or put them in my pocket; she rarely discussed them. I was sorry for this, as I needed her help to understand them.

  Some of her poems were fresh and open and accessible. In them she had a clear, personal vision that made me see a bird or a snake or a thunderstorm as if I’d never noticed one before. But others were mysterious, oblique, deliberately confusing — as if she were hiding inside, sending out hints and waiting for the reader to discover her.

  I put all her poems together in a sweet-smelling cedar box from Barbados as she gave them to me. Some were arranged properly on the page; others were written almost as rhyming prose, with little curling dashes as the only punctuation. I must have had nearly a dozen of them.

  “Did you mean that God is like a father?” I asked her once, on the rare day she herself brought up the subject of one of her poems.

  “No, that Father thinks he’s God,” she snapped back. Was she impatient that I had not understood her oblique message? Or simply annoyed by the attitudes of her father?

  “Our fathers aren’t at all alike, are they?” I realized. “I wish mine would care more about my life, and I gather you wish yours would care less.”

  This insight forgave my misreading of her poem. “You’re right, Miranda — much less. My father is OBSESSED with keeping Lavinia and me on the proper moral path and reminding us of our inferiority as women. He would BREATHE for me if he could, since he thinks I don’t breathe correctly without his supervision.”

  “While my father has to be reminded that I need air as much as he does!” I responded.

  We laughed in a companionable way, two friends at ease, deploring the arbitrary ways of fathers.

  “A few summers ago, before we moved back to The Homestead, I went to call on a friend late one afternoon,” Emily related. “It turned to a fine evening, and since Amherst ladies are in no danger on our village lanes, I accepted an invitation for supper. I returned a little after nine — and what a SCENE awaited me!” She grinned, remembering it.

  “Father was breathing thunder and lightning, like Jehovah, and Mother and Vinnie were clutching each other in terrified flat-out HYSTERICS. You could hear them on Main Street!”

  “Because they were so worried about you, Emily?”

  “No — because they thought Father would surely KILL ME, there and then!”

  She laughed, but her laughter had a sharpness to it. This story, meant to entertain, chilled me. My responsibility toward Emily, preventing any cause for incurring her father’s wrath, was cemented.

  When Ethan designed our temple for us in 1857, no one had a clear idea of what we would do with it and in it. As our Amherst life developed, however, the temple seemed to affect most of our family decisions. For instance, the handsome Italian iron braziers heated only half the space, so we had them duplicated in Springfield. These then required a shed to store them in summer. The shed led to a stable and carriage and pair, since my father, at sixty-two, really should not have been walking to the college in bad weather anymore, and we were tired of renting from the livery stable. Then the stable and horses required the hiring of Sam, our splendid red Irishman, to help us in everything. It reminded me of the children’s game “The Farmer in the Dell.” One thing led roundabout to another and another.

  Our Shakespeare evenings were established now — an Amherst tradition. The cast of readers sat on the stage, and the audience of guests sat on black-and-gold stenciled Hitchcock benches. My father had them made at the Hitchcock Factory across the river. If you looked carefully, you could see tiny scenes of Amherst Village life painted and stenciled in gold leaf on the backs of the benches. One shows our house, with our family standing under the portico; we are no bigger than acorns.

  Christmas 1858 was our second in Amherst. We were using the temple for a momentous event. There were candles everywhere and ribboned wreaths in every window. The braziers and the guests were glowing. All our friends had come to drink champagne and celebrate Kate Sloan’s engagement to Ethan Howland.

  I was wearing my ice-blue tulle. I stood with Aunt Helen, watching Kate, whose joy lit the great room. She was onstage with Ethan, showing her ring, an opal in a hoop of little diamonds. She wore ultramarine velvet with a wide lace bertha and a wreath of white roses. Aunt Helen and I could see that Kate was adult and elegant and complete. The New Year, 1859, would usher her into her new role as Ethan’s wife. She was being swept up into the stream of life; she was leaving us behind.

  Of course I told Emily about Kate’s engagement party: the candles, the wreaths, the wine, Kate’s face as she sang “Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes” to Ethan. As I related the story, I could hear how being Emily’s narrator had improved my speaking style. I made my account short and vivid and chronological; details were summoned only if they enlivened my little narrative. Amusing Emily had become an education in itself.

  Kate’s wedding was to be in mid-May, but plans and preparations for it took up our entire winter. There had been a few other happenings: an extra blizzard or two, which extended our sledding — and measles at the academy. Then my literature class presented A Midsummer Night’s Dream on the stage of our temple. I tried out for Puck, but I towered over midget Oberon and miniature Titania — so I became a reluctant Wall, which amused Miss Adelaide.

  “What a comedown from playing Miranda and Cordelia!” she teased me. “But I know the audience never saw such a brilliant and eloquent Wall!”

  These diversions, however, did not keep us long from our family job: the wedding. Kate and Ethan had decided to live in Springfield, where Kate had cousins and friends, and Ethan could take the cars to the various Connecticut Valley towns where he worked. So Aunt Helen sold her house and gave the young couple half the profits; Father matched this as a wedding present. Thus, Kate and Ethan were able to buy a small Federal house, a doll’s version of The Homestead.

  “This will be a showcase for my work!” said Ethan happily. “We’ll add a
wing when we need it and a music room soon. My clients can see their architect using his own designs.”

  “We’ll have to take the front door off its hinges to squeeze the piano through!” Kate laughed. This was the fine instrument that Father bought for the temple but which he gave to Kate — with the promise to continue paying for her voice lessons.

  Living closely with someone like Kate enlarged my father’s capacity for affection; it had done the same for me. What would we do without her?

  Now we had reached late March — usually the season of mud and despond, the price we New Englanders paid for exquisite May. But in 1859, for the Sloans and the Chases, March was a season of anticipation and joy. We had lived in Amherst two winters — one in the plush jungle and one in our own house. I would be sixteen in the fall; Kate would be nineteen. Our family life had developed and evolved in the same way as our property, and the wedding preparations were in full swing.

  Father engaged Madame Lauré to come from Boston to make Kate’s wedding dress — and mine, as her attendant. It was a Thursday, after school, and it was almost April; Madame Lauré and I were alone in the house, fitting my dress. The delicate spring light washed over us, over my reflection in the pier glass. We had moved it to Aunt Helen’s room, which had the best light. Madame Lauré laced me into my first stays. I was overcome at the transformation wrought by two inches removed from my waist and added to my bosom.

  Kate was to wear heavy corded silk called “lutestring.” I would wear the same fabric, in the fragile green of little May leaves. Madame Lauré dropped the heavy skirt over my head, over my grown-up crinolines; she fastened the little buttons on the basque jacket. I studied myself in the mirror, a fashionable green tulip shape. I was startled by my own reflection. Was it possible that I was beautiful?

  Suddenly there was a brisk, efficient knocking at the front door. Madame Lauré and I were taken aback. There was no way I could change quickly and no one else to go to the door — and all callers and messages were important as the wedding approached. So, feeling almost in disguise, I trailed my silks and crinolines down the stairs and across the hall.

  I opened the front door.

  He was a young man just a few years older than me, tall, with dark hair and arresting silver eyes. He was as startled as I was, but he collected himself and bowed briefly and correctly.

  “Miss Chase? I am David Farwell. Professor Chase has very kindly invited me for supper.”

  I answered as politely as I could, hiding my surprise. “Won’t you come in? Father will return soon from the college, I’m sure.”

  When students came to the house, Father saw them in his library, so I decided to take this one there. We entered the library wing, where the spring sun was gilding jonquils and pussy willows in a pewter jug.

  “You did that, didn’t you?” His smile carried over into his pleasing voice.

  “I did, but Father may want me to move it. He gets very upset when my flowers shed on his papers.” How did this young man know I had done the arrangement? Had Father mentioned this skill — a surprise itself — or had David Farwell surmised it by looking at me?

  “Then you should use laurel leaves instead! Actually, you make me think of Daphne and the laurel, with that wonderful color you’re wearing.”

  “Then I’d better leave you, before I turn into a laurel tree!” And I departed, swaying and rustling, a convincing young lady — thanks to my stays and crinolines — astonished by my casual reply.

  I heard Aunt Helen and Vera, our new Swedish hired girl, returned from their marketing, talking in the kitchen. When I told them our dinner guest was here, Aunt Helen hurried off with sherry. I set the table with Vera, wishing David Farwell would see me in my green silk one more time.

  Madame Lauré appeared to remind me that she needed to take the dress with her to make the alterations. Reluctantly I climbed the stairs and came down for dinner in my Sunday dress, a striped mauve silk, but I did not change the transforming underpinnings.

  Kate and Aunt Helen noticed my elegant new shape instantly. Kate’s hazel eyes widened with a question; Aunt Helen hid a smile and seated us without comment. My father saw nothing and was in tearing good spirits.

  “Ladies of my real family, let me present one of my academic family: David Farwell, my academic grandchild!” Father clapped a hand on David’s shoulder. Aunt Helen had seated our guest to Father’s left, opposite me and Kate.

  “David is my favorite student’s favorite student,” Father continued. “I taught Joel Parsons at Harvard, and now he is head of classics at Exeter, my dear old school. Dr. Joel Parsons has sent me David to finish him off!”

  David Farwell smiled, his fine-boned face lit with intelligence and humor. “Sir, with respect, I’m coming to Amherst to be started, not finished off!”

  Father appreciated this. “Quite right, my boy! We’ll give you an education in classics that will last your lifetime. Now tell me, what translation of The Aeneid are they using at Exeter these days?” And they were off in their own world.

  While they talked, I studied David. The most striking thing about him was his total ease. He was at once poised and relaxed; he was without tension or effort. He gave my father his entire attention, unaware of his effect on others.

  “Tell me, Miss Chase, are you a classicist too?” David looked directly at me, and I met those remarkable eyes. Now I saw they were very light gray, with black rims around the iris. His thick lashes were black too, even darker than his thick hair. I must have been staring; I immediately lowered my gaze.

  “I don’t have Greek yet,” I told him. “But I truly love Latin. It sounds like the sea.”

  “Indeed it does!” This pleased him. “Or like our Lake Michigan. The Great Lakes are inland seas, you know. We have tremendous storms in winter, and the surf sounds just like Latin.”

  “Miranda enjoys Ovid only because he tells love stories,” Father teased me.

  “That’s not fair!” I felt a slight flush rise in my cheeks. “I enjoy Ovid, Mr. Farwell, because he tells true feelings. When Daphne tries to run away from Apollo, then I feel her terror too.”

  “And you ran away just like Daphne this afternoon, didn’t you?”

  “I had to, before I took root!” After having so many conversations with Emily, I was well rehearsed for this sort of repartee.

  David Farwell and I exchanged smiles, pleased with our banter — but Father wanted him back.

  “I don’t know Illinois,” he said. “Do you live in Chicago?”

  “We used to, sir, but the stockyards have pretty well taken over the city,” David explained, buttering his bread. “Everyone wants to move out of town and build to the north. My family and some of their friends all moved together and started our own town, right on Lake Michigan. We called it Lake Forest.”

  “Is it a village, like Amherst?” Aunt Helen asked, passing the bowl of peas and carrots to our guest.

  David spooned the vegetables onto his plate. “Not really. It’s all too new. There was only prairie there until ten years ago. We chose the place for an extraordinary stand of oaks, mile after mile along the lakeshore. We built our houses right there among the oaks. We saved them all.”

  “Did the Indians never damage the trees? Firewood must have been scarce on the prairies,” Father said.

  “They say the Indians protected the oaks too. They used to have their rituals and ceremonies there. You feel it, even today. I simply can’t describe those oaks to you, Professor Chase, they’re . . . noble.”

  “There’s a sacred grove at Epidaurus,” Father recalled. “You sense its deep holiness. Your forest sounds very like Epidaurus.”

  “My father will give me a year in Greece when I graduate,” David announced. “Then I’ll see Epidaurus, and Delphi, and Sounion — Sounion most of all! Byron wrote . . .”

  I stopped listening and just watched David Farwell. Van Dyck should have painted him. He was long-boned and elegant, with beautiful wrists and hands. He had a straight,
narrow nose, winged eyebrows, those strange silver eyes. Then he glanced at me, and I caught his look and understood my attraction to him. He had a quality best named in Latin: bene volens. David Farwell was benevolent. He wished me well.

  The talk moved about the table. We spoke easily about winter sports, about Kate’s wedding. David spoke of his parents — his father and stepmother, married many years after the death of David’s mother — and mentioned his little stepsister, Frances, who loved to hear Father’s book at bedtime.

  “You return to Exeter tomorrow?” I asked over the custard dessert.

  David nodded. “This was a short trip. Merely to introduce myself to the college.”

  “And the college to you,” Father added with a smile.

  I found I was disappointed that this brief visit would be my only contact with David Farwell. Perhaps when he returned in the fall as a student, we would meet again.

  After supper, he left with a word for each of us.

  “Mrs. Sloan, that dinner made me homesick. Professor Chase, I wish I could start Amherst tomorrow! Miss Sloan, you have my very best wishes for your upcoming wedding.” Then he took my hand to shake, and his smiling eyes met mine. “Miss Chase, beware of gods prowling in the underbrush!”

  I might have told Emily about meeting David Farwell, but when I called at The Homestead next, she was entirely focused and centered on her own urgent concerns.

  “At last! Now, Miranda, we must talk seriously. I have some important news. I think I have found my surgeon.”

  I was shocked. “Emily, how terrible! An operation?”

  “Not for me, for my poems!” She laughed at my misunderstanding. “I want you to read this and give me your opinion.” She handed me a recent copy of the Atlantic Monthly, folded open. She indicated an article by Thomas Wentworth Higginson called “Ought Women to Learn the Alphabet?” This was an ironic but overwritten piece, stating and restating women’s intellectual equality with men. It ended with a baroque flourish: