by Barbara Dana
Father was determined that Vinnie and I should be cured. We had long been putting up with Dr. Brewster and then to Greenfield, but nothing could be done. It was decided that we should be treated in Boston. Aunt Lavinia’s homeopath, a certain Dr. Wesselhoeft, would have the honor. Wesselhoeft. One would not expect the final e.
All in all, the trip passed without mishap. We made a stop in Worcester to see Uncle William and to offer our condolences as poor Aunt Eliza had just recently died. After that it was off to Boston to stay a fortnight with Aunt Lavinia and Uncle Loring, little Louise and Frances. It was lovely to see Austin—when free from teaching hours at Endicot—but awfully hot, which put me not in a mind to go out. The rush about city life is not for me and doubly so in such oppressive heat. I begged Austin to excuse me.
We saw Dr.Wesselhoeft, whose remedy proved useless; however, a certain Dr. Jackson saved the day! He prescribed the glycerine, which worked wonders.
Once Home, I felt I had never been so glad to see any place in all my life! Mother and Father had gotten on well without us. I had been concerned something might happen to them while away, so the sight of them at the door and Carlo at their feet was a welcome one indeed!
I would soon be twenty-one. It hardly seemed possible. I was not at all sure how one was supposed to feel at such a worldly age, but I was certain that however one was supposed to feel I did not feel that way. I imagined myself an “intelligent and thoughtful young girl”—certainly not a woman. I wrote of this to Susie in far-off Baltimore, who surmised that nobody felt the way they thought they were supposed to feel, but were disinclined to mention the fact. That helped some. However, as usual I secretly felt myself to be different from all.
In the midst of these weighty considerations came Thanksgiving! Susie was not at home, but in all other ways it was a grand time. Father and Austin arrived from Boston, Father having once again been a delegate to the “Bald Men’s Society”—the Whigs!—and then the fun began. After church, where Reverend Colton spoke with pleasant sincerity on the nature of being a worthy Husband and other matters of essential propriety, we enjoyed a wonderful dinner. Mother left no stone unturned in the cooking line! After dinner Father suggested Austin take the Girls—Vinnie and me—for a sleigh ride! Abby came too, and didn’t we have the most wonderful time, laughing and reading letters from Susie and taking in the fine New England countryside. Later at a party Abby sang her favorite song—that would be “Blue Violets”—in enthusiastic, ragged fashion, then I off to the hearth with Austin to muse. It seemed as if Life were back to where it should be—as if we were children again and always would be. I missed my Susie, but all else was in its proper place.
Professor Tyler’s Woods
The branch of the quince tree scratched against the side of the house beneath the window. Jack Frost was moving at his expected pace, dropping not a stitch of time as usual. Winter’s slant of afternoon light told of things to come—the heft—the foretelling—but of what? The branch scratch-scratched—the Angel’s fingernail hinting—and all the while me thinking of Susie and when shall I see her and why must I wait so long? I thought I should be shut in a closet until a happier time. It was too awful, really!
To start things off, Pussy died. Vinnie was crushed. Now there were three cats in all, namely Roughnaps, Snugglepoops, and Tootsie. If you ask me that was plenty, but Vinnie saw it different. I did feel sorry for her. She was so close to the creature and loss is always hard. I know how precious a pet can be. I don’t know how I will survive should Carlo die before me.
The branch of the quince tree scratched once more. I looked through the window at the narrow branches. I wondered if they were lonely without their summer tenants. Did they feel as if they had “themselves,” brown and stiff only, no fruit, no leaves, no tender blossoms? Did they wonder if it would be so always, or did they know that spring would come? I told myself they knew, for it seemed as if they did, to me at least, and for whom else may one speak?
Spring will come for me as well.
It was a pleasant understanding.
I found myself with the pen more than ever. I think there was a difference afoot in my desire to write. Until then it had been a great joy, a blessed return to myself, a dream I would pursue forever, a help in times of fear. It was all that now and more. The “more” was that I had to write. I had to return to my Self or I would die. The writing of my verses had become nourishment larger than food or sleep or friend or any. Without I wrote my verses I felt I would slip away until I was gone. I could not be without my Self. I could not survive that Circumstance.
Each day the pockets of my apron received their guests—scraps of paper, shopping lists, envelopes, whatever might be used to carry my jottings—notes from Infinity—observations from the garden—the path of a bug—the death of a cat—the dependability of a star—caught until such time as could be considered afresh, put together in just form, my single lamp lighting the page to carry the Light past Death, should I die—I knew I would, though it seemed beyond a thing to contemplate—and should another come to read them.
Do I not seem the accomplished young lady, saving the world from behind my bedroom window? I have to laugh at myself, which is a good thing for one filled with so much self-importance! Most of my verses are slight, bits of nonsense, wisps of girlish fancy. The prime example being the poem published—without my knowledge, or consent—that very month in the Springfield Daily Republican. It was a Valentine to none other than William Howland, trivial, but not badly done and quite roguish, if I may cast a ray of praise upon its humble author. I was not pleased with the changes made by the editorial staff, not to mention the gray stare from Father. I do so wish he took pride in my writing. He takes pride in me, I know, but not in the literary line. His approval appears in matters concerning forbearance and the making of bread.
I sat looking out the window, as the branch of the quince tree continued to scratch against the side of the house. A funeral was passing—heads bent, dark coats and shawls. All was February gray—like Father’s face when he saw my poem in the paper. He saw it there but read not a word—and was mute! I wished he had said something! A reprimand would have been better than nothing!
A squirrel darted across the stiff grass, past the mourners, a nut between his anxious jaws. I thought of the bread to bake, the stairs to sweep. Vinnie could not be expected to do all the housework, though it would please my evil heart! Mother was sick again, with pains in the limbs. Much would be left to Vinnie.
“Time to go,” I told my sleeping Carlo. He woke with a start, ready for whatever I had in mind.
That afternoon I got a letter from Jennie, my dear companion from the schooltime days—jumping on the bed in the extra room, composing notes to the cats to keep out. It came all the way from Ohio! Jennie said I simply must come and visit her and she would not take no for an answer. I was flattered to hear of such longing for my company, but the thought of leaving my precious Home caused quick concern. I was surprised by the force of it.
No, no. Mustn’t do that.
Heart beating quickly. Breath thin. No air.
Dungeon Fear returned?
I quickly declined.
Thank you for your kind invitation. It would please me more than I can say, but I must be excused. Perhaps you can come to Amherst. Oh, I am hoping that you can! But leave my Father’s House? It would be as if to rip my heart from my chest. Please understand and know that I love you.
Affectionately,
Emily
It was a time of many changes. It hardly seemed as if there could be more and yet it was so. Some alterations cause me to question the sense embarking on so flimsy a Circumstance as living upon this Earth. I find that even melodious changes are not always easy as they wrench the Soul, only to drop it in the land of the unfamiliar. The old ways are in the blood and a happy wrench is a wrench all the same.
The first change was terrible. Death claimed my dear former roommate, Cousin Emily, the selfsame who had offered
such support during my stay at Mt Holyoke, another stolen from me by ruthless Consumption. Oh, it is too awful a disease! And no way to stop it! Father’s sister Aunt Mary was next, or first perhaps. I don’t recall. Grief dulls one’s sense of time—only blank—blank—and more blank—until the blood is once more perceived in the veins and Life exists for a while.
One change was easy. Austin had finished teaching and was at home. How grand to see his slippers under the chair and better yet to see him! It picked up all our spirits. Mother’s strength improved, which meant much fussing about—“did we have what we needed?”—and smiles and all that went with it! Father was most relieved to have us all “where we should be”—as he said many times—together! Oh, it did feel good! The Special Five! And I know Father was comforted, being so often away, to have Austin about the house. Vinnie enjoyed the parties with her handsome brother and his Whisker friends very much indeed. Vinnie loves any chance for a party. The attentions of dashing young gentlemen never fail to please her—and carriage rides with stars bright, moon low—forget the shawl!—Father will never know!
A week after my birthday—and me twenty-two!—Father was elected Representative to Congress for the 10th Massachusetts District. It was quite an honor but meant that he would be more often away. As if that were not enough, Austin left for Harvard Law School. Our home once again became a shadow of its former self—Mother and Vinnie, yours truly and Carlo carrying on as in time of war, the men gone, the women and the animals striving to survive each new day. Once again, I forgot the cats! I will not hold myself in terribly low esteem for the omission as the cats have never been uppermost in my mind. Another cat joined our merry band when Austin left for Harvard—not a fair trade in my opinion—by the lively name of Drummydoodles. Vinnie gets full credit for that merry bit of literary imagination. “Drummy” is a bit wild, a large tiger cat, possessing jungle ways. Birds beware!!
And then came March. The month brought the most awful death I had ever known. Two unacceptable words—
Ben. Died.
My Preceptor, my inspiration, alive no more! I had lost him twice already, once to Worcester, once to marriage, but that was not enough. I was to lose him again and this time forever in this world—and in Eternity, perhaps. How is one to know? It was too cruel! I felt had I loved him better, he would have stayed. I thought so many things, fanciful things—that he would appear at the door, be sitting in the parlor; that a letter would come in the mail from him, or a book, or some precious gift or other. I dreamed about him. He was so real and we were so real together. Then the awful waking up and he was dead. I felt I simply must know if he was afraid to die. The question troubled me greatly. I could not rest until I knew the answer. I thought to write a letter to Ben’s Pastor to see if he knew what Death was like for my Preceptor. As I did not know the Reverend Hale, this took ample consideration as to the matter of propriety. I delayed initiating the correspondence for many months.
The very same week that Ben died, Sue went to visit Austin at Harvard and they became engaged. I had been waiting for just that, but when it happened I was not glad. I knew I should be happy for them, but could not be. It was loss all the way. Ben lost. Austin lost. Sue lost. And I alone.
It happened again.
New London Day. June. Hot. Father has been working for years to bring the railroad to Amherst and now it has come—“Amherst & Belchertown” to points unknown—Whistle hooting twice a day, and now the dusty time to celebrate—such heat—the earth parched to desperation. All of New London has come by special train to Amherst to revel in “progress” and to praise the grand accomplishment of a certain Mr. Dickinson, known otherwise as Emily E. Dickinson’s Father, Chief Marshal at his day of Triumph! There is a dinner planned, refreshments prepared and the streets overripe with hordes of lively folk and shouts and carriages everywhere, proceeding at a pace better suited to the open country. I look out the window. The streets are filling. The noise is great. My Pleasant Street no longer belongs to me. It has been taken over by strangers, to be used as they see fit.
They didn’t ask me.
A stern voice is heard in the other half of my brain.
Why should they ask you? Is it listed in the ledger as “North Pleasant Street, owned by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson”?
Mother calls. Time to meet Father at the station. Out we go, swept into the flow of assuming humanity. It is so hot, but they don’t care for that.
They think the day was meant for them. Where do I come in?
Dust fills the June air. The heat is oppressive. I feel faint, head heavy, legs weak.
Not again!
I try to keep walking.
Walk straight.
Terror.
Stay in the utmost center.
Panic!
I can’t breathe!
I try.
Breathe!
I can’t.
Help me!
An “excuse me” to Mother.
Must get away!
Mother, worried, asks what’s wrong.
Can’t speak.
“Are you all right?”
NO!
“What is it?”
No tongue.
“Emily!”
I head for Professor Tyler’s woods. I can see the trees, quiet, cool, waiting. I will not faint in their sturdiness, for there I know is Peace.
Lonely upon the Shore
It had been some time since a Terror of such momentous proportion had presented itself. Now I worried daily about the future. When would the Terror come again? Where would I be? What would I be doing?
Summer continued despite my concerns. Austin was not well at Harvard. He carried on with his studies, but it was one cold after the next and several bouts of low spirits. We were quite the pair. I really did feel that if he could be at Home, all would be solved. I was convinced that my desire to provide every comfort from the garden of my love for him would make him well. But he did not come home. The law won out, as it had with Father.
Father Time—upon his silent rounds—continued to bring indubitable changes. I felt the punctual gentleman’s work in my blood, proceeding its relentless way—too quick for such as I. Sue was back in Amherst and out of black. It seemed the engagement did it, not I. I must admit to no small amount of jealousy on that point. Her mind was on her marriage to Austin now. All the girls were wondering about whom they would marry. Abby and Tempe could speak of nothing else. I exaggerate some, but not much. Existence as wife was the Cornerstone of their thoughts. My Cornerstone was Poetry—my poetry! Could “wife” contain a Circumference so Large?
It wasn’t long before Abby became engaged. I felt a sense of foreboding. I wished I could have joined her in her happiness. She did seem very much in love. Her husband would be Daniel Bliss. She would be Abby Bliss. I prayed the name carried with it the infinite news of their future.
Once more my friends had entered a province I could not embrace. It had happened in the matter of religion and now again—each one—at sail in amplitude—and I a lonely girl upon the shore. I imagined joining them. My stronger part—or was it the weaker?—had pictured a new nest and I—Wife!—with all the glory and the dusting such title confers! Companionship forever and little Emilys all about! But even as I pictured the scene, savored its sweet nectar in my veins, a darker portion held its standard high. Poet! That voice was stronger than all the rest, held more of my Self. I could not but listen.
Days became weeks—weeks months—and all a’wash in my brain. Before I knew it, Sue was off for Geneva, New York, and then on to Michigan to see her brothers. We had been arguing—about religion mostly, specifically about my not becoming a Christian and not knowing if I ever would. Susie could not accept this. And there were other things. I think the engagement to Austin had some to do with it, though I can’t be sure. She felt I had changed, that I doubted her love and was always trying to get her to prove it. She may have been right about that.
There were few letters after she left. I wr
ote, but Sue rarely answered. Soon there were no letters at all. The rift was widening more and more, until it seemed the very air became a stranger to my lungs. Blood cold, mind gone, heart sore—about to split my chest! When I could no longer bear the pain, I wrote to end our friendship. I told her I had been vexed over small things and should not have been, but that we could not go on arguing. We had always differed in matters of religion and that would have to be as it was. After some brief agonizing time Sue wrote that she did not care to end the friendship. I was deeply thankful and vowed to myself that the subject of religion would forever remain out of bounds for such as we. I opine Austin will have to become a Christian now that he has Susie’s unwavering point of view on the matter to deal with. We shall see how long it takes.
Summer 1854.
Where had the year flown?
In July Austin graduated from the prestigious Harvard Law School. We were all very proud. Though he did not go to accept his diploma—Mother had need of him—we had a celebration at Home. Father was overjoyed and said he was soon to have a new partner in the law firm. We all knew whom he meant. Austin got the point straightway. It was to be him! It seems Father had never asked Austin what he thought as regarded the arrangement—no surprise there! Austin was undecided as to what to do. I advised him to remain silent and make up his own mind as to what path his life should take. He took my advice for a time. I had been hoping he would return Home to stay upon the completion of his studies, but soon he and Susie were off to Chicago—leaving his devoted sister to fend for herself.