Afternoons with Emily

by Rose MacMurray

  Herein a Blossom lies —

  A Sepulchre, between —

  Cross it, and overcome the Bee —

  Remain — ’tis but a Rind.

  “Miranda, I think I’ve caught your friend teasing us!”

  All of this was remarkably like what I had thought myself but never expressed. I felt vindicated and relieved.

  “So present your conclusion, please, sir!”

  “Professor, I find this poet to be one-third inspired, one-third incomprehensible, and one-third mannered and fake. But Miranda — these manuscripts are a big responsibility. Does she have other copies?”

  “I couldn’t say. She’s far too casual about her drafts and her fair copies. But I promise I’ll keep these ones safe. Which poem did you like the best?”

  Davy riffled through the first pile and handed me the one that began, “Success is counted sweetest.” “This is impressive — a finished work of art. I would be honored if Miss Dickinson would make me a copy.”

  “Davy, you pass the quiz. I award you a kiss as a grade.”

  “My other professors never do that!” He smiled, drawing me into his arms.

  For all the joy I felt that fine spring, one relationship was changing. Father seemed almost too interested in the personal details of my life and in playing the role of indignant parent bent on protecting his little girl. If I could only restore his former benign detachment!

  He and I had lived pleasantly under the same roof for almost seventeen years. Our houses were large, which permitted privacy; he worked elsewhere and had his own separate schedule. Until we came to Amherst, I had no interests or engagements that might have opposed his. We lived neither together nor apart; our lives were parallel. There was never an occasion when I wanted something different from him.

  But now that occasion had come. Father and I had been quarreling for days. We rumbled and steamed, muttered and erupted, like two volcanoes. Indeed, to Davy and Kate I quietly began referring to Father as Vesuvius. Davy urged me to remain respectful and moderate. Yet when we were alone, Amity Street was a battlefield, and Father and I seemed like hostile strangers.

  Emily delighted in bulletins from the conflict; these confirmed her ongoing war with her own parent.

  “But you stole my PRIVATE metaphor! ‘VESUVIUS’ is what I call MY father — I thought of it first! I’ll prove it, Miranda, you BRIGAND!” I was astonished by Emily’s childish pique, but I conceded her prior claim to domestic volcanoes as an image when her poem proved it.

  Volcanoes be in Sicily

  And South America

  I judge from my Geography —

  Volcanos nearer here

  A Lava step at any time

  Am I inclined to climb —

  A Crater I may contemplate

  Vesuvius at Home.

  I congratulated Emily on her irony. She liked my praise but was uncertain about the poem.

  “Perhaps I went too far in mockery,” she mused. “After all, Father is no LAUGHING MATTER.”

  I understood. No matter how much I could create a humorous story for an audience about my situation, the tensions between Father and me were quite serious.

  I had read that when duelists met, they fought by a code, the “Rules of Engagement.” I did not know the code for family fights; this was my first. Should I continue to hide the emotions I had always restrained? Should I believe words uttered in anger? Were these words permanent, indelible? Father and I seemed like hostile strangers.

  We called a truce for Prize Day at the academy, when I won the award for Special Academic Excellence — so studying with Davy had not hurt my marks. But when I made this point to Father, we resumed our war. The next battle came when Davy paid my father a formal evening call. He brought a prettily phrased letter from his stepmother, inviting me to visit in Lake Forest this summer.

  “That is out of the question,” Father answered. He was adamant. When pressed for reasons, he told Davy, “Such a visit would suggest an engagement, and none exists. Whatever present understanding there is between you, I do not acknowledge it. Good night, sir.”

  After Davy left, Father and I both said a good deal more. He repeated that I was an inexperienced child and needed more years to know myself. I accused him of not knowing me either — and of denying me a greater affection than he had ever offered me. He then warned me that Davy was willful and selfish, like me — and that we had both better concentrate on acquiring education and maturity.

  I went to Springfield to visit Kate and lick my wounds. Davy joined me there. We were appropriately chaperoned, and had we been asked, we would have told Father and Aunt Helen about the afternoon’s plans. But no one asked.

  Davy sat beside me on the grass as I held Josey, who had started smiling. I listened to Kate’s good sense.

  “Miranda, Uncle Jos is spoiled. Up until now you’ve been just too easy! You’re pretty and healthy and smart, you’ve never given him any sort of trouble — and he’s even had Mother and Miss Adelaide James to be parents for him. He doesn’t expect you to ever want anything for yourself.”

  “So what should I do?” I asked.

  “Negotiate and compromise. Give in a little; let him believe he’s won,” Kate advised.

  “Come to Lake Forest at Christmas instead,” Davy agreed. “Let him think he’s made his point — but meanwhile, be independent about other things. Show you have a mind of your own. What would you most like to do this summer, if you can’t visit me?”

  “Learn more Greek, I guess — and buy some clothes that aren’t so childish. Oh, and get a new desk; I’ve outgrown my old one.”

  “Then do it all!” urged Kate.

  “You’ll find it gets easier,” said Davy sagely. “Parents usually do come around, sooner or later.”

  When he returned to Illinois at the end of June, I started my Greek tutoring at the college. Father had chosen Mr. Ennis, one of the younger men in the Classics Department. My tutor was short and thick; he sweated and breathed heavily. I learned more Greek, but that was all I learned; there was none of the spirit of Athens — the scholars, the generals, and the athletes mingling — that Mr. Harnett would have in-stilled in me.

  Soon it was evident that our lessons were causing Mr. Ennis to breathe even harder. He stood behind me, panting and pointing to a line — and I leaned away. I barely smiled at his labored Greek compliments; I ignored the suggestive love lyrics he assigned to me. Finally at my last lesson, he declared himself, weeping on his pudgy knees. I was angry and embarrassed; I couldn’t even be vain about such a ludicrous beau. I considered mentioning this to Father, pointing out that he was being inconsistent in allowing me to be alone in the lovelorn company of a porcine young tutor but not to visit a civilized, well-chaperoned household under the care of Davy’s parents. But I decided to remember Kate and Davy’s advice, and remained respectful and moderate while I strove to achieve my goals for the summer.

  First, there was a flurry of fireworks and fiery speeches for the Fourth of July. The ceremonies were held on the village green, as dry as it would ever be. One of the orators was a Judge Otis Lord, a distinguished friend and frequent houseguest of the Dickinson family. Though he was eighteen years her senior, Emily always fluttered over his frequent visits and enjoyed having meals with him and his invalid wife — the thought of which amazed me.

  Miss Lavinia related the story of a typical exchange at one of Aunt Helen’s sewing circles, and Aunt Helen then retold the story to me as we hung freshly laundered linen on the line. “Judge Lord once arrived at The Homestead and asked for Emily, who sent down word she could not see him.”

  “That isn’t surprising,” I said, straightening the wet sheet. “That’s Emily’s way.”

  “Well, not to be put off, the judge marched smartly to the stairs and called up this order.” Now Aunt Helen affected a commanding masculine voice. “Emily, you wretch! No more of this nonsense. We have traveled a long way to see you. Come down at once!”

  She laughed and p
icked up a wet tea towel. “Can you imagine?”

  “No!” I exclaimed. “What did Emily do?”

  “Miss Emily Dickinson not only presented herself forthwith, but they subsequently took to referring to each other as ‘Wretch’ and ‘Rascal’!”

  I wiped my damp hands on my apron. “Astonishing!”

  Perhaps exasperation was the one emotion that could persuade Emily to change her behavior, for Judge Lord seemed to be the only one of her Mentors whom she actually and regularly saw.

  Later in July, Father and I took the cars to Boston. After we agreed to postpone my visit to Illinois, we became friendly again. We had errands to do: Father would begin researching a new book, and I had wardrobe shopping to accomplish. I was determined to achieve the goals I had set for myself, and new clothes were high on the list.

  We spent a few days with Cousin Ellen Curtis Lyall, a bride when I saw her last, who seemed to have replaced now elderly Cousin Daisy Powell as the official herald and liaison officer of the Latham family. Cousin Ellen lived on Mount Vernon Street, across and down from number 32. Her husband was Dr. Hallett Lyall, a surgeon; she had a little brown-haired son, Ames, a year older than our Josey. She welcomed us with the grace and warmth I remembered from childhood.

  “It’s time we had another blond beauty in the family,” she said with a smile. “Your Cabot grandmother was very tall and fair too. You’re quite like her.” She showed us our own portrait of Miss Eliza Cabot, wearing a low-cut yellow silk dress and holding a matching parakeet. Cousin Ellen still “borrowed” the portrait from Father, but she reminded us it was ours. “I’m just keeping it till Miranda marries and has her own house.”

  I had often felt far removed from my mother’s family tree; I was grateful that kind Cousin Ellen had found me a perch on one of its branches. We went over the clothes I had brought; Cousin Ellen was very taken with the laurel-green silk costume I wore for Kate’s wedding.

  “You’d know that for a Madame Lauré anywhere! We must have another in black velvet, the same French cut. With your hair and your complexion, you must do black velvet. I remember you always wore that at the New Year’s parties. You were so serious then, watching the other children. But you’re not standing on the edges anymore, are you?”

  “No, I’m not — not for some time, it seems.” I smiled.

  “We’ll need to find you some dresses for school and daytime engagements too. Do you go out much during the week?”

  “Not this summer, Cousin Ellen. I just study.”

  “I see . . .” Her expression grew concerned. “That must be quite lonely.”

  “It’s not,” I assured her. “Truly it’s not!”

  I could not explain to her that the daily visits from Davy through his letters were companionship enough for me.

  We went to several grand stores, crowded with clothes for modish Bostonians. Cousin Ellen was endlessly helpful, guiding me toward my own style. “You have a classical figure and wonderful coloring; let us see them. You must always be simple and uncluttered. You’re a goddess, not a shepherdess, Miranda!”

  Father admired the results of our shopping. His favorite dress was the indigo printed challis with the velvet piping and yokes. He admired the gray moire too and the mauve velvet.

  “I do like to see a handsome woman, well turned out,” he told us. “And you’re the one to show us how, Ellen!”

  “We want only to do the family credit, Jos.”

  How easily they chat, I observed, as one personage to another! Someday I too will be this sure of my own worth.

  The last day, we crossed Mount Vernon Street to choose a desk for me from among the pieces still in number 32. I had dreaded this errand, stepping back into those shadowed years — but the tenants’ new colors and possessions had changed the house beyond recognition. Only the black-and-white entrance hall resembled my memory. It was far less difficult than I feared to choose a Sheraton mahogany writing table from an upstairs landing.

  “I much prefer this to a desk with drawers,” I assured Father. “There’s room for my long legs! And it reminds me of the table you used at York Stairs. This can be my seventeenth birthday present.” I was practicing getting my way. It did get easier, as Kate and Davy had promised me, and in our constant letters, I described it all.

  When we returned to Amherst, we eased into a slow summer pace, with the town quiet and the campus empty of students. I often went to The Homestead to garden at dawn for the pleasure of Emily’s company outdoors. She was entirely different when we were away from her room, where the shelved books and the formal furniture set the mood for our time together.

  “It pleases me to give my flowers more liberty than I myself enjoy,” she confided one day. “That is my LARGESSE. I say to them what no one said to me: ‘Just be yourself!’ ”

  “Davy always tells me that,” I offered.

  Emily nodded distractedly. “Yes, real friends should.” But she wasn’t interested in my experience of this ideal friendship; her attention was on herself and her perceived loss.

  “Susan and I were that to each other, long ago, before her affections wandered from us and turned toward the fashionably affected.” She looked away, remembering.

  I wanted to hasten to Mrs. Austin’s defense, knowing how much she still cared for her difficult sister-in-law, but held my tongue: I could see that Emily was building toward a fiery display of her own. I had no wish to have her fireworks directed at me.

  “Seeing us now,” Emily went on, developing momentum, “you must find it hard to imagine that we were ever close — but we were, WE WERE. Of course Sue benefited from my PROTECTION THEN.”

  Emily glanced my way and arched an eyebrow in response to my skeptical expression. “It’s true,” she insisted. I had begun to notice that her soft voice became almost shrill whenever she had to assume a posture of persuasion. “We were schoolmates and friends, though our backgrounds were so OPPOSITE. Her father was a mere tavern keeper here, and they say he served himself a few times too often. Ah, I see you are astonished at these origins,” she added when I could not contain my surprise. “He and Susan’s mother both died when Susan was a girl at the academy. An older married sister in upstate New York agreed to take Sue and a younger sister; her country childhood was spartan. There was little about it that was either pastoral or romantic or FASHIONABLE. She was truly brilliant, you know — but I was always aware of a deep cultural VOID from her unfortunate childhood.”

  I was offended by her snobbery; if Emily believed Mrs. Austin to be brilliant, her origins should not matter. And this narrative explained to me Mrs. Austin’s ostentatious displays and increased my admiration for her.

  “If that’s how you feel, I’m surprised you show her so many of your poems, Emily.”

  “Susie has natural taste and judgment. Had she been raised differently, she might have been a real SCHOLAR. She is by far my best critic.”

  I bristled a bit at this. I had imagined myself in that capacity for Emily. She still saw me as a mere sounding board and didn’t value my views. Yet how was I expected to develop as a critic when she never allowed me to have an opinion? I pulled up weeds rather angrily, wondering how Mrs. Austin had accomplished this.

  “Do you know what Lavinia calls Mr. Cutler, Sue’s brother-in-law?”

  “No, Emily, I don’t.” I tugged another weed.

  “It’s so cruel I shouldn’t repeat it. I do so only to show you how WITTY Vinnie can be. She calls him a ‘counter-jumper.’ ” She giggled behind her spade.

  This truly shocked me: not Miss Lavinia’s malice but Emily’s glee in repeating it.

  “But Austin welcomes Mr. Cutler into the family and treats him with brotherly love,” Emily went on.

  “And Mrs. Austin?” I asked. “Does she do the same? Does she agree with Mr. Austin’s friendliness?”

  At first Emily dug vigorously without answering me.

  “As it happens, they agree about very little. They seem to be pulling in different directio
ns these days,” she said at last. “Austin said Sue has become intolerably aggressive and opinionated, and of course he was raised with GENTLE WOMEN around him. Nowadays he confides a great deal to me about his marriage. A sister’s love, you know, is unwavering, although one cannot always make the same steady claims for a sister-in-law’s.”

  “Surely your taking sides doesn’t help his home life, Emily.”

  “Oh, but he needs a sympathetic ear, Miranda.”

  But not your envious heart or treacherous tongue, I thought to myself.

  Whether Emily realized it or not, she was showing me a good many ways that she herself was endangering her brother’s marriage. There was a stinginess about Emily’s position concerning Sue that troubled me. Here were two women of formidable intelligence that each had determined to utilize, although each had selected a different means.

  If Mrs. Austin welcomed recent guests such as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Frederick Law Olmsted, and Harriet Beecher Stowe, Emily, on the other hand, with narrow-minded petulance, labeled them fiendish social frauds and intellectual impostors. Nor could she credit her sister-in-law for finding her own path to a goal Emily herself endorsed. No — Emily had to criticize, divide, and conquer. She thereby caused mischief in her brother’s marriage — and did so from spite.

  I went back to Amity Street when the sight of passing neighbors sent Emily indoors. There was usually mail for me from Davy and often from Miss Adelaide too. She was bitterly disappointed the last two summers, when Dr. Hugh’s failing health prevented our returning to York Stairs. I could tell that she truly missed me and my company. “Now that you’re almost seventeen, and so much has happened to you, you and I will be even better friends,” Miss Adelaide wrote. “Do you think we can hope to see you here next year, in the summer of 1861?”

  I could not answer this — or even imagine any time beyond Davy’s return to Amherst, so all I could say was “We’ll see.”