A Voice of Her Own

by Barbara Dana

  Mother was feeling better, thank goodness, and Vinnie was once again back in the bosom of the family, so the housework situation was considerably improved. Austin was gone to Sunderland to teach, however, leaving far less Hurrah about the house and a pining sister to boot. With Vinnie surrendering to the Arms of Christ in November, I was the sole impenitent sinner of my entire acquaintance—excepting my Shaggy One.

  Ben’s letters came regularly. Always, I would respond that very night, and me downstairs past 9, the others long asleep, Carlo at my feet and the oil lamp, my pen and ink, and the blessed paper that would carry my Words to my Friend! There you would find me, bent over the desk, describing in detail whatever creation I might be wrestling with, some ethereal vision demanding capture. Ben would always answer just enough—not too much—only what was needed to clear my addled brain, as too much closeness to one’s verse may leave one without sight for what lives.

  Father never again mentioned my fateful Valentine to Gould—published, no less, for all the World to see! But that would be the last, if I cared to retain my place in his Esteem. Mother shows little interest in my verses one way or the other, not a fearsome point of view yet not an especially encouraging one either.

  Life was quiet. With Austin gone and so many of his classmates as well—done with college, off to the wilds of a larger existence—Amherst was carrying on in simple Christian observance. Father was pleased with our lack of party invitations, although Vinnie and I could have done with a bit more in the merriment line.

  And then—a surprise!

  It was late. All respectable citizens of Amherst had begun the move to the pillow. I was in the kitchen over tea—and Carlo by the stove—when there came a furious clanging of the church bell. I ran from the house expecting to see the town ablaze, but it was no fire at all. It was the Aurora Borealis in all its majesty, lighting up New England!—Crimson, pink and gold!—Great streams of fiery light from out a flaming center like a Sun—and again the flash and again—repeating in a seemingly endless display its news of the Splendor of the Universe!

  The street was full of people gazing up in wonder at the heavenly sky above North Pleasant Street. There were the loudest exclamations, great shouts of startled surprise and awe at the Glory of it all! Father was in front of the house, gazing up with all the rest, a huge smile on his face, eyes twinkling in what appeared to be almost mischief! It was he who rang the church bell! Father rushing out in the deep of night to personally ring the church bell?! Why, I never heard of such a thing! For a fire perhaps—he would stretch his comfort for that if the need arose—but to inform his neighbors of the chance to behold the beauty of Nature? I would not have thought so, but I would have been wrong!

  Oh, what a mood he was in that night! I swear when Father is of a certain persuasion there is nothing grander in all Existence! Not even the Northern Lights! The Show lasted a full forty-five minutes! Mr. Trumbull gave the report in the Express, saying it was “one of the most splendid displays of its kind ever witnessed.”

  After the great display there were smaller flashes of the same, slowing in frequency and brilliance, until gradually the night sky returned to its familiar state. Slowly, the people went back inside their houses, some exchanging words for a time, as the event had to be shared. Father and Carlo and I remained outside to the last, Father in that enthusiastic frame of mind that charmed all. Vinnie returned to the house and bed, but Carlo and I remained in the road with Father.

  Father was not ready to sleep, nor was I, and so we two sat in the parlor for the merriest time I can remember. We drank tea, while Carlo snoozed upon the rug. Father expressed surprise that we should see the Aurora here in Amherst, thinking it mainly a show for points farther north. I said that from what I had heard, such brilliant displays could normally be found in more northern regions, but lesser ones might be enjoyed in places like Massachusetts.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “you’re right, Emily. I have seen those paler scenes. This was stupendous!”—I had never heard him use that word!—“I forgot they were one and the same. What a show!” He was not over it yet! I was not either, but as I tend to be quite beflown by even the simplest of Mother Nature’s gifts, I would expect it might take some time for me to right my senses—but Father! It was a grand surprise! We stayed up together for hours that night.

  “I’m sorry your mother missed the Lights,” he said, “but she needed her rest.”

  We spoke of many things, of Mother’s gentle nature, of Austin’s superior mind, of Vinnie’s flirtations. We spoke of Carlo and before you knew it we got to laughing over his obsession with squirrels and how if one were going to have an obsession at all one might choose a more interesting one. It may have been the best night in my Lifetime, although I suppose it’s too early to tell. I do know it left me with an added sense of the warmth residing deep within Father’s nature, which has been extremely pleasant.

  Once in bed it took a long time to welcome sleep. I lay next to Vinnie, who miraculously was not snoring, and thought about Father.

  He is so wonderful and terrible, so ALL there and NOwhere. Plain terrible would be a relief. One would know where one stood.

  In the morning, Father rapped on my door. It was time to be up and doing. I wished he would leave me alone.

  It was a Patchwork time. Beginning with Susie’s arrival, my mind was a quilt of contrary squares, each one exclusive of all the rest. And where was Emily in all the jumble?! Most vexing was my huge love for Susie and the matter of religion. Susie was of fixed opinion. Nothing would do but that I come to rest in the waiting Arms of Christ, not the precepts merely, not the Glory of all Creation, not the knowledge of the Bible, or the wonder of Eternity. I must become a Christian in the traditional way. I must declare myself a Christian. I must go to church so many times a week—and it must be to the building called church, not to the woods or the meadow. I must pray so many times a day. I must believe in Original Sin, embracing the thought that we enter this world with evil thoughts and must be cleansed. I could not! I had another way. How unlike Susie to worship Tradition. I found the fact impossible to believe. I knew her. Tradition could fall flat on its face for all she cared—should fall if sense were to be appropriately served! But Religion holds a separate shelf in Susie’s cupboard. Finding that we could not discuss the matter without unpleasantness, we decided not to discuss it. It was an uncomfortable arrangement.

  Other Patches did not fit the quilt of my mind—Vesuvius joy and low spirits—verses published and not supposed to be—handsome Whiskers and Father’s displeasure—precious friends and friends leaving—walks with Carlo and being too ill to leave the house—and on and on. I was sick much of the time, the ax in the chest, the cough, with eyes too pained for light. Don’t look! Quilt overhead! Here is darkness, and peace, and rest! But here is loneliness.

  I missed Austin terribly after he left to teach at Sunderland. It seemed to me that he would never again live at home, where he belongs. I wrote him several times a week and am happy to say that he did write back most usually, as a decent brother should. Susie was blessed with his letters as well. Romance was in the wind—a glorious coupling! Sound the trumpet! Beat the drum! Another piece of contrary quilt presents itself. The evil, selfish voice is heard. The news is grand but what of me? Discarded now? Out upon the heap?

  Keep quiet, or someone will hear your thoughts!

  That fall Susie and I and Vinnie were very much looking forward to attending a series of lectures that captured our fancy. They were to be given in Amherst by Richard Henry Dana, that brave Boston sailor, on none other than Shakespeare! The most special was the one on Hamlet, my favorite tortured Prince! In the morning of the Hamlet lecture I started out with Carlo to secure some medicinal drops for Mother. When I shut the door behind me I felt a familiar fright. Sometimes when I dream, or just before I leave for that enchanted land, I feel a start, as if I am on a wall and just step off. Nothing beneath. Such a fright grips me that all is lost! Heart racing—breat
h shallow—safety gone! That was my perception when I shut the door.

  Wait!

  Carlo looks up in question.

  Can’t leave!

  Carlo sits.

  Stove!

  Carlo snaps at a fly.

  Water boiling!

  Another snap from Carlo.

  Forget it. Not boiling.

  I start off.

  I just checked it.

  Carlo follows.

  But did I?

  I stop.

  Was it this morning I checked the stove?

  Carlo stops.

  Or yesterday?

  Heart racing.

  It was yesterday. Before church. Kettle cold. Did I check today?

  My inside voice is stern.

  You checked twice, Emily! Continue on!

  I can’t move.

  Legs numb.

  Terror!

  Flames!

  Terror!

  The House will burn to the ground!

  Mind stops.

  Go back. Better safe than sorry.

  I try to breathe.

  Who says that? Father? Mother? Both.

  I turn on pudding legs, Carlo behind, sure his caretaker has lost her mind. He may be right.

  Once inside I see the kettle, quiet, stone cold. Exhaustion claims its victim.

  Bloodless head. Can’t think.

  Up the stairs. Carlo watches but does not follow.

  Stay with me, Carlo.

  He doesn’t move.

  Please.

  But no.

  Please!

  Into my room.

  Safe.

  I sleep deeply, dead almost.

  When I wake up I feel unwell. I know straightway I will not go to the lecture. The World will pass me by. There I am, alone in my darkened room, forsaken even by my dog. The well-known words take their place in my brain.

  How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable

  Seem to me all the uses of this world!

  Shakespeare got it right.

  Father Puts Out the Fire

  I have met with many bouts of low spirits. I don’t know what to do about it and so I go on singing and hope for the best. Hope is a bird, arrival unnoticed until there!—perched quiet on the shoulder. No, not on the shoulder, in the Soul! Sometimes the wind blows so cold and the night comes so dark, one thinks there will never be a single thing in this World to look forward to. And then, sure as Day, that little bird returns, chirping the sweetest melody, and all is well! I must write a verse about that.

  I was quite ill during the months that followed the Hamlet lecture and the scare of the burning house—confined to bed, the reluctant partner of my pillow. Vinnie was often ill as well and who would dust the stairs?! The question burned within my breast. It was Mother did it. Pocket handkerchief ready! Duster in hand! Proceed! Somehow we were never all sick at the same time, at least there was always one of us well enough to rally to the charge!

  Many left us that spring. It hardly seemed as if they could, so many gone already. The usual round of mourners passed through the cemetery beneath the window, Consumption so often the cause. We had just lost Leonard Humphrey to the grave when others left by separate means. Lyman left in March to seek his fortune in the south. Vinnie was extremely vexed about it, her first serious romance ended. I did feel sorry for her pain. I was vexed as well, losing, as I did, an excellent reading partner. And did Austin return from Sunderland to the waiting arms of his devoted sister? He did not, but instead threw caution to the Wind and went to Boston to teach.

  Ben married in June. It was a terrible leaving to my jealous mind. Was I to marry him? Surely not. The thought may have passed through my mind on a whisper journey. Ben was my Preceptor, my friend—and such he would remain—but that did not help any! Another had won his heart and that, to this miserable sinner, struck a blow to her own. Her name was Sarah Warner Rugg—now Sarah Warner Rugg Newton. And there the matter must be laid to rest.

  When I was well enough to be up and doing, it was Susie and me all the way. Though she had visited during my bout of illness, she stayed not long for fear of tiring me. Now we were back in business! All matters, both inconsequential and Large, were covered in deepest deep by us two and always the feeling we could go on together forever! One evening, shortly after the news of Ben’s marriage, we got talking of Europe. Sue would love to travel to that part of the world. I find it a noble calling, but for my part, I would just as soon go in reverie and spare the inconvenience of dealing with luggage. Mother’s daughter after all! Sue’s first stop would be Italy. She is especially fond of all things Italian in the art line.

  “I must say, when it comes to books, the English are my favorites,” I offer. We are alone in the meadow, only Carlo to tell the tale. He lies by my side, panting in the summer heat, a look on his broad face to suggest a smile.

  Sue lies back in the grass. “The English books are good,” she says, a compliment of high order. Sue is not given to curlicues. She says what she means and little else.

  Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter had just been published—a sad story—but very true. I mentioned how fine I thought it was. Susie had not yet read it but was planning to. “Name your favorite English books in order of preference!” I instruct. “Go!” And we are off, Sue first, then yours truly. Before you know it I am on to my most cherished topic. “One needs solitude for writing,” I declare. “The mind must have space to receive those thoughts from Infinity!”

  Susie agrees.

  “And how do we get that space?” I give her no time to answer. “Where is the room when one is filled with chatter as regards the price of twine . . . ?”

  “. . . or what color should be worn in August . . .”

  “. . . or what the neighbor should have said . . .”

  “. . . or did say . . .”

  “. . . or did not! There is no room left for Glory! Oh, keep me free of such a Circumstance!”

  A breeze comes up. Carlo lifts his chin, nose to the wind. All is well.

  Up with the jib sail! Lay her a’hold! Currer Bell is a woman!

  When the news reached Amherst that the extraordinary author of my beloved Jae Eyre was a woman, I felt a celebration to be in order! I had suspected as much—but to know! A woman by the name of Charlotte Brontë was the writer. A woman! I wondered how Father would have taken the news had Charlotte been his own. Who would have baked his bread had his beloved daughter gone about pilfering her precious time, penning dark tales of the moor, full of impropriety and unbridled Passion? Too horrible to contemplate!

  I was considering these points on my way downstairs with Carlo one afternoon in July. It was close on three and awfully hot. I was looking for something, a thimble, I think. Father and Mother were sitting side by side in the parlor, Mother sewing, Father reading—nothing carnal, one can be sure. I suspect Father’s tight rein and narrow mouth tell of unspoken interest, but cannot be sure on that point.

  At any rate, there they were and Vinnie nearby, dusting—no surprise there—and the cats about her feet. As I reached the parlor there came an awful banging on the door, the cats all a’swish and Vinnie and Father and I rushing to answer the call. A neighbor’s barn was on fire! All hurried out, and soon it seemed as if the whole town would burn to the ground! It was a shame Austin missed it, as he does so possess a taste for excitement. There was a terrible wind and all dry from no rain and no engine! I don’t remember why. It was broken or away tending to some other disaster. The men were all heroes under Father’s supervision, you may be sure. Together with buckets and more water than I have seen at one time, save as Nature would arrange it, they put the fire out!

  When it was over Father sent the men off to Howe’s for a grand time and returned home to his book, gathering whatever relaxation might be offered from so lifeless a tome. I put off my search for the thimble or whatever other small item I may have been missing, and giving in to exhaustion, bade Carlo follow me up the stairs and into my room, where I met wit
h the comfort of my pillow. As I lay in bed waiting for sleep, my thoughts returned to the brave Charlotte Brontë, who wrote the great Jane Eyre, and how Father would have felt had she been his daughter. Soon closeness to sleep blurred my thoughts and the fire became one with how angry I was beneath my mind. Father would have been displeased—not proud, not happy for his daughter’s good fortune, but ashamed of her indecent behavior. I dreamed I was the barn. Father was putting my fire out and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

  Shortly after the fire Austin was home for a whole month. It was August, I believe. The House was itself again and all of us so happy to be together. Mother was feeling better, up and doing, and polishing a specially selected apple for her only son each and every day. It seemed to me that Austin’s admiration of Susie was growing. Hers was for him. I know because she told me.

  All things must end, or so we have been told. Soon the trees would be letting go their tenants. Soon Austin would be gone. Before I knew it, he was off to teach at Endicot in Boston. And that was not the worst of it. Sue had been called to teach at Mrs. Archer’s Boarding and Day School for Young Ladies, in far-off Baltimore—Maryland, no less! It was a fine, sought-after job. I was happy for her opportunity, while at the same time found myself wishing the job did not exist. We were both so awfully vexed about the idea of our separation that we could not say good-bye. We decided to write each other notes instead. We left these—at different times so as not to meet—at the foot of our favorite tree in the meadow. I included a poem. It was for her and none other. I think I will not quote it here.

  Ill health returned to the Dickinson girls. Vinnie was not so bad as I, but had a fever nonetheless. I felt certain my trouble was Consumption, lying in wait since infancy, but again said nothing of Consumption to anyone. I knew Mother was upset, as she became especially quiet. There is much Consumption in her family—in my family—which is never a good sign. Grandmother Norcross and her brother Hiram both gave their lives to that guiltless marauder the year before I was born. I have always fancied it my job not to do the same. I surmise it to be Mother’s concern that causes her to be mute. Though she stays close, cools the fire from my brow and hurries to bring whatever I might need, silence is her loyal companion.