Afternoons with Emily

by Rose MacMurray

  “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!

  Still, when his article “Amherst Educator Sees Each Child’s Unique Value” appeared, it was accurate and lucid. From the reactions to this, and the American Student piece, and the news of the center, I suddenly acquired a professional correspondence.

  Emily never once referred to Mr. Bowles’s article, although I was certain she must have read it. But I sent it to Roger Daniels and received an immediate answer.

  November 10, 1865

  I am pleased to see that the world is beginning to take a serious interest in our serious foundation. Since this is now the case, we must move forward.

  I would like to meet you in New York directly after the New Year, as we have work to do there. Among other things we must talk to the builder about the fourth-floor apartment on Washington Square. You and the staff working there should have a small kitchen at the very least, and we need to settle various other arrangements. I feel we can do this better at the location, working in tandem with Alan Harnett.

  I would also like, with your permission, to arrange tickets for Figaro and Orfeo.

  And he closed with a postscript: “How strange — how lovely — to be looking forward to something!”

  Mary Crowell and I continued work on transforming the laboratory at Amherst College into an ideal kindergarten space. Ethan drew up plans for this as well. During one of Ethan’s visits at the beginning of November, Father requested that I arrange to have a door made, connecting his library with the parlor. “Elena shouldn’t have to go out in the cold when she comes for her myths,” he had said in explanation. “And you’re doing all that construction anyway.” Then he asked that Sam move his bed downstairs. He slept in the library now, and Sam spent the night in Father’s old room. I knew what these changes meant: I was witnessing him diminish.

  I poured out my feelings to Roger and realized, as with Davy, we were using this correspondence to learn about each other, both in what we wrote and then in how each of us responded to the growing wealth of information between us.

  In response to my letter, Roger replied:

  Your lovely long letter about your relationship with your father, and how it has evolved, was heartwarming to me. I understand that you are afraid, that he is weakening. Did it help you to write? Often summing up for a friend can clarify one’s feelings. I stand ready to listen, whenever you need me.

  His insight touched me. He knew that I
was fearing the worst, that which I could not face about my father. And this was disguised by the fact that it appeared there was no need for this terror, for we seemed to have come to a plateau where father was neither better nor worse. Only little things were signaling what was coming: among them his willingness to allow Dr. Bigelow more visits, and that gentleman’s administering of digitalis. And then there was Father’s resignation, at midterm, from the college.

  “Dr. Bigelow has extracted me from the department banquet and the farewell speeches in Greek and Latin.” He laughed. “We planned it that way!”

  Aunt Helen and I did everything as we always had, surprises for Elena, special treats to tempt Father’s failing appetite. And so we continued until Christmas, and through the holiday, in a calm heightened by my certain knowledge that Father would not see another.

  In January 1866, as Roger had requested, I planned a trip to New York. As I packed I was surprised by the attention I gave to my clothes: what dresses I should wear for meetings about our school, what evening gown would be best for the opera. I decided upon the aubergine taffeta with a ruche neckline and caught myself wondering if this dress showed my coloring to advantage, and then blushed that I had this thought. Roger and I are professional colleagues, I reminded myself. He and I were still new in our friendship, and he was a man with complicated obligations. I was not sure where I should allow my thoughts to take me.

  In New York I was once again staying in the Harnetts’ tiny cottage. Father and Aunt Helen had thought it best that I be chaperoned, so perhaps the attraction between Roger and me had been detected even if it went unacknowledged.

  Alan and Fanny had given up one of their children’s rooms for me. The seventeenth-century Dutch colonists must have all been miniature figurines, I thought as I bumped my high, absentminded forehead on the eaves of the house, but nonetheless I felt at home, enjoying the prospect of what we hoped to achieve together.

  And there was another prospect I was enjoying. Roger had arrived before me and had taken a suite of rooms at the plaza. He had left a note requesting that Alan and I meet with him and Elliot Peck, a specialist in stained glass windows, at Mr. Peck’s offices in Washington Square at our convenience.

  “And I would like to call upon you in the evening,” he added, “when you feel refreshed from your journey.”

  I had arrived too late for this to occur on my first night there, and I was disturbed as much by my twinge of disappointment — what could it hurt to wait twelve hours? — as I was by my sense of relief; I felt almost fearful at the prospect of seeing him, of his direct gaze, of looking into those amber-colored eyes. This was a relationship with rules I did not yet know.

  The evening passed far less evocatively than it might have if I had spent it with Roger. I had a noisy but uncomplicated time with Alan and Fanny and their babies. Julian’s little brother, Henry, was a cherub, and I was thoroughly happy being entertained by those two and later enjoying a delicious small supper at which the three of us discussed our present and future plans.

  The next afternoon, there was Roger: elegant, tall, and calm. Did I imagine that there was a bit of suppressed energy about him? Could he also have been feeling the tension that seemed now to be constantly between us? Or was his restrained demeanor merely his usual way?

  He, professional as usual, got immediately down to business, asking Elliot Peck if we might have the use of a small table for our papers and explaining that I had been concerned about our dark north-facing classrooms. Between us, we devised panels of glass — small clear panes set in lead, covering entire walls. Now our kindergarten would be bathed in light, even on the darkest day. We worked for hours, adjusting, debating, considering, yet the time flew by.

  After the meeting, Alan, Roger, Mr. Peck, and I celebrated at a nearby tavern with ale and oysters. All through the meal, I was aware of a strange contradiction in Roger. I sensed his attention, but it was deflected: he seemed almost to be avoiding those intense gazes we had occasionally shared earlier. He brought the conversation around to the foundation a number of times, as if he were retreating to the safety of our professional relationship, while Alan and Mr. Peck chatted on about any number of personal things. Only when Alan and Mr. Peck discussed the latest performances at the Academy of Music did Roger refer to anything of a more intimate nature.

  “Miranda has agreed to join me for both Orfeo and Figaro,” Roger said. It was here that his eyes finally rested on me. I saw warmth and anticipation in those eyes, heightened, perhaps, by the flickering gas light.

  “How marvelous!” Alan exclaimed. “The notices for both have been spectacular.”

  Roger and Mr. Peck accompanied Alan and me back to the Harnetts’ little house. I had longed for a few moments alone with Roger, if only to better gauge his mood. Had I been mistaken? I wondered. Is his interest purely that of a lawyer and his client? But as I was lodging with the Harnetts, even a few moments alone were not possible. My questions reverberated more strongly after Mr. Peck — whom I had met only that afternoon — kissed me good night, while Roger merely bowed his head. Perhaps it was the ale and my giddy sense of accomplishment: I shocked myself by taking his hand, rising up on my toes, and bringing my lips to his cheek.

  “Till tomorrow night,” I told him.

  Before I could see his reaction, I spun on my heels and entered the little house, Alan following behind me.

  As I prepared for bed, I marveled at my boldness. Perhaps Roger’s formality brought about a little rebellion in me. At the same time, my feelings were completely confused. I admired Roger, I was attracted — and yet . . . What could we have together? What future was there for us?

  I drifted off to sleep pondering such thoughts, and of course no answer came.

  I didn’t see Roger all the next day. Alan and I had a busy time together going over curriculum and talking to plumbers. Not exactly a glamorous way to spend time in such a fashionable city! But Roger was never far from my thoughts. What would our excursion to the opera be like?

  He arrived in the evening, resplendent in white tie and tails, and nearly took my breath away. He was so much more than merely handsome; his presence had a weight to it that made me feel I was in the company of someone very important — someone who took up space.

  His eyes told me he thoroughly approved of my violet silks and the ribbon I had woven through my curls. He had a carriage waiting outside, and a tingle of electricity shot through me as he helped me into the coach.

  “You look quite beautiful,” he told me after he had settled into the seat. “All eyes will be upon you tonight.”

  I smiled, taking great pleasure in his approval. “That will make the soprano quite unhappy, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps you could learn to sing,” he teased. “Then the show will be able to continue when she storms out in a jealous rage.”

  “If I sing,” I joked back, pleased with our easy banter, “the entire audience will storm out.”

  We arrived amid clattering carriages, and I tried to remember all the details that both Emily and Sue Dickinson would enjoy hearing. Sue would want to know all the latest trends and be sure she was keeping up, while Emily would relish her imagined superiority over such frivolous doings.

  We found our box and sat in the plush velvet seats. “I’ve never been to an opera before,” I confessed.

  Roger took my hand and squeezed it. “Then I’m glad I suggested it. It is my pleasure to introduce you to something that brings me great joy.”

  I discovered that evening, and the evenings that followed, that there were indeed two Rogers. There was my steadfast and correct trustee, who was always ready with an opinion, advice, or an ear but who maintained a professional distance. And then there was my gallant friend, delighting in watching me discover the city and its pleasures for the first time. We were able to build on the closeness we had achieved through our letters, and over our private dinners and excursions we talked about ourselves intimately — as true friends. I heard about
his childhood; he heard about mine. I suffered with him when he related more of his war experiences; he consoled me in my several losses. We were never without conversation.

  I realized that Roger’s circumscribed demeanor was not due to a lack of attraction — rather, it was precisely that attraction that made him distant. He was protecting me and my reputation. He is a married man, I reminded myself each night as I struggled to fall asleep in the Harnetts’ close and crowded house. He has an important position with my foundation, which should never appear to be compromised. He was formal out of respect — and it made me like him all the more. I knew I would be sorry when my New York business was completed — all too soon.

  When I returned to Amherst, I heard through Mrs. Austin that Emily’s aged dog, Carlo, had died. I was visiting at The Evergreens to be introduced to Sue’s second child, a little girl named Martha. I was surprised that Emily herself had not sent me a note on her dog’s demise. My feelings were mixed: guilty that Emily and I had become so estranged that she did not share this news with me; relieved that I was not called to witness her grief in extremis. Sue and I wickedly entertained each other with possible elegies to the old hound, mimicking Emily’s style at her grandest.

  “Don’t be put out by Emily’s silence,” Sue said finally. “She has her hands full at the moment.”

  “Really?” I asked, smiling down at Martha. “How so?” I couldn’t imagine what would keep her occupied other than her writing.

  “They’ve lost their hired girl and have been unable to hire one on. All the household duties have now fallen to Emily and Lavinia.”

  “Is she writing?” I asked, handing Martha back to her fashionable mother. If Emily’s new responsibilities interfered with her writing, she would be despondent.

  “Less than before,” Sue admitted. “But it is hard to tell. It is possible she is simply sending me fewer of her poems. Martha’s arrival . . .”