“Let me see if this explains it,” I said at last. “Emily’s character is one of arrogant shyness. Or perhaps it is shy arrogance. She feels unbearable pressure from the physical presence of others. Also, she begrudges wasting her time with people less gifted.” I gave him a sly grin. “Which she believes is just about everyone.”
Colonel Higginson and I shared a laugh.
“Did you know Miss Dickinson and I correspond?” he asked.
“Indeed I do. She considers you her most valuable friend and Mentor. You came into her life at a time when she needed both.”
The colonel looked troubled. “Miss Chase, I swear I will never be less to her — and I will never be more. But in her letters I get the sense that she expects . . . well, she seems to want more than I offer. Perhaps she misunderstood my suggestion that she visit Boston.” He shifted his weight several times, fiddling with items in his trouser pocket. It was clear that he felt uncomfortable. Having experienced that same discomfort myself, I felt in an excellent position to counsel him.
“Miss Dickinson — Emily — is a very unusual person. She is remarkably intense in all her relationships. She has no casual friends. There is no gray in Emily’s palette.”
“Her letters are so personal,” he said. “She addresses me with a degree of feeling that — disturbs me.” The colonel pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his troubled brow. I liked this good-hearted man for his concern.
“Sir, I have listened to Miss Dickinson’s fantasies for years and have never seen her act on a single one of them. I believe you would do her grave harm if you ended your correspondence, for her letters are her hobby and her social life. She has a dozen correspondents besides you! You are in good company, Colonel Higginson — and perfectly safe.” I could see his relief at hearing this, and inwardly I felt the same way. It was as if by reassuring him, I had reassured myself.
“Then perhaps I will continue to press her to allow me to visit. Her letters and poems have such a strange power, such luminous flashes,” he said. “If she would only permit me to edit them, I could bring her all the fame I know she is secretly craving. I could put her in print tomorrow! But she would rather go unpublished than take my advice and draw upon my experience.” He shook his head. “She’ll come into her own reputation and honor only after she dies. Then she won’t be able to refuse editing — or annoy the editors’ wives.”
As I watched him circulate through the room, I realized how much I liked him and, even more, how much I enjoyed male company and conversation. Since my transforming hours on Barbados, I had a new ease and sincerity with men. As this thought occurred to me, the crowd parted for an instant and I caught a glimpse of Roger. For a moment I saw nothing else, and the wealth of memory that flooded me made me light-headed. I had not seen him since July, nor heard from him since my arrival in New York. He had made no point of seeking me out at the reception. The moment of longing gave way to a hot flare of anger; if he was here for work only, so would I be.
I turned and smiled brilliantly at an elderly gentleman who asked a politely doubting question about the need for early education. “They hadn’t none of this when I was a boy, and I learned well enough.”
“Did you enjoy it, sir? Did you run to your lessons every day?”
The old man grinned at some memory. “The master had to beat the lessons into me with a hickory stick! Still, I learnt them. Do you really think all this pretty stuff will make children learn?”
I took his arm and guided him to a crowd of parents who were waiting to see the school. “The furnishings and projects will help, of course, sir. But the real secret is to have inspired and inspiring teachers. I had one such myself and liked him so well that he will be the director of the school!” I introduced him to Alan Harnett. The old man acknowledged Alan but was not done with me.
“It still sounds like coddling to me,” he said. “Still, I imagine if all my teachers had been as pretty as you, young lady, that might have made a better student of me!”
I laughed and handed my doubter to Alan, who included him in the first tour group. As the reception went on, Alan and I took turns in guiding the parents of prospective students about the school. Roger had stationed himself in the third-floor reception room, where he would relate to the press and anyone who wished to hear it the foundation’s history and our goals and plans. In the next room Lucy Quinn, the recently hired office administrator, sat behind her desk and took enrollments. Our books were on display, and I could see that she was also taking orders for copies. Alan’s wife, Fanny, helped Siobhan refill the punch bowl and replenish the other refreshments. Lucy Quinn’s oldest daughter, Mim, a solemn twelve-year-old, watched over the Harnetts’ little ones, Henry and Julian, who looked very handsome in their miniature suits.
I greeted Mr. Butler, my friend from the Ethnological Society, who introduced me to his new bride. As I stood serving slices of our gigantic Leo-shaped vanilla cake, I spotted many familiar faces: our stained glass specialist Elliot Peck, who received many compliments on his delicate work, and several of the staff from Friends Seminary. I was most gratified to see that one of the workmen, a burly Italian immigrant, had brought his wife and three children to enjoy the day and to inquire about enrollment.
“But they would not be taught with our children, would they?” a highly decorated young matron asked me anxiously.
Looking at the workman’s children, who were clean and in their best clothes and were sitting quietly, overawed by the reception, I said I would have no objection to having them at the school. “It is quite possible that they would be in the same class.” I wanted to be clear about this.
“But they are — that is —” the woman faltered.
“They seem very well behaved, and the older one was intrigued by the globe,” I said mildly.
“Why should a child of an honest workman not be welcomed in a school such as this?” A woman’s voice came over my shoulder. “If it is only because his parents were born in another country — why, America is a young country. Shake it a bit and you will see that we are all immigrants. Congratulations on your success, Miss Chase.” The speaker, a woman a few years older than I, nodded pleasantly, then turned away. The young matron watched her go, murmuring, “Oh, yes, of course.”
“Who is that?” I asked Sue Dickinson a few minutes later.
Mrs. Austin looked across the room. “Oh.” The word was filled with meaning. “That is Mrs. Victoria Woodhull. She is recently arrived in New York and is one of Mr. Vanderbilt’s pets. She is an interesting woman, Miranda, but I would give her a wide berth if I were you; I know nothing against her, but a school — particularly a school as new and unusual as this one — must be particular in its supporters.”
“But if you know nothing against her —” I began.
“I know nothing for her, either. Mrs. Woodhull appears to be the sort of woman who is . . . talked about. The only thing we wish people to talk about is the school’s educational philosophy!”
I sighed. There would be many such shoals to navigate. The school needed the enthusiastic support of the well-to-do in order to thrive and grow, and we would all — myself and Alan and Roger and everyone connected to the school — have to learn to listen sympathetically without swerving from what we all agreed was the true mission of the school.
As the party came to a close, we ushered the remaining guests into the garden. Mim, Julian, and Henry handed out balloons to all the children in attendance. As the adults drank a toast to the success of the new school, the children each released a balloon. These rose with deliberation and dignity, and drifted slowly over the city like stately confetti.
When Alan shut the door behind the last departing guest, the sun was setting. Lucy Quinn came down the stairs, beaming, clutching a ledger to her ample bosom.
“Good thing you had the good sense to hire me,” drawled the trans-planted Virginian. Mrs. Quinn, like so many women, had been widowed by the war. We never discussed her feelings abo
ut the confrontation between North and South; as Miss Adelaide had said, there were worthy men lost on both sides of this terrible conflict. A pleasant, plump woman in her late thirties, she had packed up her children and moved to New York in hope of finding the work that had proved elusive in Virginia.
She held up the ledger. “I enrolled twenty-two students today! And you can be sure I took deposits in cash only, to secure their positions. Not only that, I sold fifteen alphabet books!”
“You are a genius, Mrs. Quinn!” Alan exclaimed. He flung his arms around her in a bearlike embrace. I had never seen my former tutor so exuberant. Fanny and I both laughed at his enthusiasm while Mrs. Quinn made a great show of straightening her hat and gasping for breath.
Alan turned to me, grabbed my hand, and twirled me around. “Twenty-two!” he cried. Finally he gave his wife a kiss and pulled her close. “Do you realize that means we are nearly at capacity?”
“I am so proud of you,” Fanny told her husband. She rested her head upon his shoulder.
Alan’s warm gaze landed on me. “We did it.”
“Yes,” I said. I felt tears welling up and blinked them back. “We did it.”
Roger had come downstairs a few moments before with a bottle and glasses. “I knew I had been saving this champagne for a good cause. This is certainly it.” He poured glasses and handed them around.
“Siobhan, come and join us,” Alan said. “You have worked hard too, getting this all ready.”
Siobhan colored. Inviting the servants to the party was not a usual practice, but this was not a “usual” school. She wiped her hands on her apron, then took the proffered champagne glass. “Thank you, sir. I’ve never had French wine before.”
“To our shared success,” Roger said.
“To Miranda,” Alan said.
“And to Davy,” I added. Solemnly we raised our glasses together.
Then, as we sipped, we settled into chairs, filled with the happy fatigue that follows hard and satisfying work. Little Henry crawled into his mother’s lap while Alan perched on the arm of the chair beside Fanny. Julian sat on the floor at her feet.
“Should we go out for a celebratory dinner?” Alan asked. “I don’t believe I managed to eat anything today.”
“I am afraid I am too tired to eat,” I confessed.
Fanny gave me a grateful look; I knew I had done her a boon by sending her husband home with her.
“Siobhan, why don’t you just leave those until tomorrow?” I suggested. “You have had a long day on your feet.” She had begun to gather up the glasses.
“Let me take these up to the kitchen, ma’am, and then, if it’s truly all right, I’d be that grateful to take a rest,” she agreed.
I saw the Harnett family and Roger out the front door and heard Siobhan retiring. I sat down in the classroom for a few minutes, exhausted and exhilarated, so I was there to answer the door when Roger returned.
“I told Alan I had left something behind,” he said quietly. “I barely spoke a word to you today.”
I waited. I could not tell what he wanted me to say; I was not certain what I wished to say myself. Roger stood, his hat in his hand, looking at me with a longing that spoke to my own.
“I will not stay long. I wish I could —”
“Why can you not?” I asked. “As far as the world knows, you left. Siobhan has gone to her quarters. You could stay and talk —”
Roger shook his head. “Talk?” His tone made the idea absurd. “For all our sakes, I will only stay a few minutes. You will be returning to Amherst tomorrow, I imagine. I wanted only to ask how you are and to let you know that you are never far from my thoughts.”
I wanted to weep with frustration. “I am very busy,” I said at last. Did he wish me to say that I was pining for love? Or that I was not? “And when I return to Amherst I will, I suppose, be busier.”
“You will not find time to come back to New York again for a time,” he said.
“Probably not,” I agreed. “Will that present a problem for you?”
Roger smiled unhappily. “It is probably better not even to speak of it,” he said. “I wanted only to see you, Miranda. And to tell you that someday . . .”
“I know,” I said coldly. “Thank you.”
I stepped back, closed the door quietly, and went upstairs to my solitary bed.
Book XIII
AMHERST AND NEW YORK
1867–1869
I returned to Amherst in a fog of misery. The long journey home gave me far too much time to think: Had I done the right thing in sending Roger away? Worse, had he ever loved me, had I imagined feelings he had never shown? I barely thought about the school or the opening. When I reached home and Aunt Helen lovingly demanded every detail of my trip, I had to wrench myself out of my preoccupation to give her the answers she wanted. I described the day, the press of visitors, their comments, and the enrollment list Mrs. Quinn had compiled during the reception.
Aunt Helen clapped her hands with pleasure. “Miranda, I could not be more delighted! After all your hard work, to get the school off to such a promising start!”
I agreed, hollowly, that it had been a wonderful day, an excellent beginning.
“Is something wrong, my dear? You sound —”
“Just tired, Aunt. We worked very hard to prepare, and the reception was exhausting. And then the trip home . . .”
The tiny frown of concern between Aunt Helen’s brows smoothed instantly, and she swept me up to my room, put me to bed, brought me soup and tea, and instructed me to sleep. “Tomorrow you will be right as rain!”
If only it had been so simple. In my memory the days that followed were misty gray. Not the black, lost days of my life after Davy’s death but a strained, nightmarish time when the world was drained of its color. Even the crimsons and ochers of an Amherst-leaf fall seemed pallid and sere. I went through the motions at school and at home, wrote thank-you letters to Mrs. Austin, Alan, and Lucy Quinn for their hard work in making the reception a success. I breathed no word of my unhappiness to my friends and family — particularly to Aunt Helen and Elena. The pretense was exhausting, when everything, even Elena’s sweet face, reminded me of Roger. When I thought of him, I doubted my memory, his heart, my heart. Was I not pretty enough? Not clever enough? Had I given myself to him too readily, too easily? Had all our talk in Barbados of a rich future been make-believe? Was I really just a great fool?
If Aunt Helen had wanted all the details of the opening, Emily Dickinson, predictably, did not. I visited her a fortnight after I returned, still in my gray mood but pretending to be the normal, sociable Miranda in the hope that that would somehow become true. When I mentioned that I had met Colonel Higginson, she demanded a detailed description of him and of our meeting. I did my best, and at last she sat back with the air of a well-fed kitten.
“Well, Miranda, and did you like my choice of Preceptor?”
“I did, very much indeed. I found the colonel sensitive, intelligent, and gentlemanly.”
She nodded, as if taking the compliment for herself. “His letters have already shown me all of that. Now I will be able to imagine his face when he writes to me. We talk as very OLD, CLOSE FRIENDS, you know.”
She was claiming her territory, and I allowed it without demur; competing in this fashion did not interest me. Instead, I acknowledged her special rank in the colonel’s esteem.
“Colonel Higginson wishes you were his protégé, Emily,” I said. “He told me so.”
She was dismissive. “Yes, he would like me to be his REFLECTION in the mirror.”
She was equally dismissive when I went on to tell her about the opening and the school. All she would say was, “I am sure it went very well, for that SORT of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” I was tiring of playing this game.
“The SOCIAL sort of thing, of course. Not my sort of triumph at all. My successes are all PRIVATE ones. I suppose you were CHARMING. Weaving WEBS OF INTEREST. Such a great scurryin
g to support one little school.”
Anger pierced the gray in my heart and my mind like a lick of flame.
“That little school will educate hundreds of children who will go and make their marks upon the world. I expect this sort of small-minded belittling from old men and timid matrons, not from the forward-thinking Miss Dickinson! Or is it just because the idea came from me? One little school — I don’t presume to criticize your poetry, Emily, so don’t presume to talk about my little school.” I was so angry I could barely speak.
Emily stood stock-still, her tiny frame rigid, her hands clenched. And then her light brown eyes crinkled up, and she began to laugh.
“Oh, Miranda! You’re like a daisy-spotted hill suddenly ERUPTING into flame! My dear Miss Vesuvius!” She crowed as if at a tremendous joke. “You — criticize poetry?”
I stared at her.
Emily continued to laugh, but there was a steeliness in her eyes. “I think all your WORK has tired you. You’re clearly not yourself. Go home, go home, and visit me when you’re in your right MIND!”
I left, the anger churning in me with each step. As I went, an echo of something she had said about Colonel Higginson occurred to me.
What do you want me to be, Emily, if not a reflection of you?
I did not see Emily again for a long while, nor did I wish to see her, yet she managed to insert herself into my life in a curious way. One afternoon, while Elena accompanied Aunt Helen on her shopping expedition, I was planting bulbs at our front walk when I had unexpected callers — two smiling women, one my age and one younger, wearing plain worn country clothes and antique boots. They believed they were expected; they kept saying, “She told us it was all arranged.”
Afternoons with Emily Page 48