Afternoons with Emily (32 page)

I had brought daffodils, but their spring beauty had no effect, nor had any of the conversational topics I offered. After
a gloomy hour, I left, wondering how long it would take Emily to recover from her assault.

I soon found out. As I walked along Main Street on Saturday, I heard the sentimental birds calling their nesting plans across
the delicious April morning. Then, to my surprise, I came on Emily working in her garden. She never went outdoors past nine,
as Main Street filled up with chatty passersby like me.

“Good morning, Little Red Riding Hood!” she trilled, waving a trowel. “Where are you taking your basket?”

“These are molasses cookies for a hayride,” I told her. Davy and I had planned an excursion up Mount Holyoke with a dozen
of our friends. There was a splendid panoramic view there — the oxbow loop of the Connecticut River. All the Pelham Hills
will be silver gilt, with tiny leaves uncurling. We would sing and fly kites; we would sketch; then we would lunch at the
Mountain House Inn. Davy had grown up arranging such outings along Lake Michigan; he made me see that the planning was as
delightful as the event.

“You chose the PARADIGM of spring for your outing!” Emily gushed. “Look in the guest books when you get up there; you will
see my signature OFTEN, from years ago.”

“I see you’ve forgiven your uninvited dropper-in,” I ventured. The prospect of a glorious day emboldened me.

“Forgiven him? It was nothing, nothing at all — a passing THISTLEDOWN between us. He is my guide and my guardian, as always.
I’ve forgotten my little PIQUE.”

No one could handle Emily but Emily herself. The college clock struck ten, and I turned toward the common, where I would forget
Emily as I met the dear true fact of my sweetheart.

For the rest of the spring, Davy and I planned a particular enterprise for each Saturday. After the hayride to Mount Holyoke,
our next project was wildflowers. People declared you could not transplant them, but Emily’s garden was flourishing disproof
of this. Aunt Helen wanted to start growing some beside our brook — and Davy wished to do her a particular favor. So Emily
wrote me transplanting directions, and we went to work.

One day while we were planting, we stopped to sun ourselves by the stream in our yard, playing the
Hamlet
game. Davy refused to find sharks and unicorns in the clouds and saw only Amherst College faculty faces. Suddenly he sat
up and turned serious.

“Miranda, I’d like to take a look at your friend’s poetry.”

I thought this over. Emily had never asked me not to show them. Davy had not read as much poetry as I had, but he had good
judgment. Whether he liked the poems or not, I wanted to hear his reasons.

“I’ll get the box.” As I ran into the house, across the hall and up the stairs, I caught a fleeting image of myself in the
mirror. I glimpsed a stunning young woman, flushed and confident, flashing by in the bright swift current of her happiness.
I could not quite believe the miracle I was feeling. I had known Davy for only a year.

“What an unusual hand she writes!” Davy remarked as I opened my cedar box. “Does it show she is hiding her thoughts, I wonder?”
He took the pages from me and began to read. “The poems don’t exactly come rushing out to meet you,” he said, stretching out
and rolling over onto his stomach.

I felt as protective as Emily did about her work. Could a stranger understand this proud, shy spirit? Davy was inscrutable,
fixed on his reading. He studied each poem several times and then placed it in one of three piles. Sometimes he went back
to reread a sheet and move it to another pile. Sometimes he asked me to decipher a par-ticular word.

I watched the sun on Davy’s long, elegant hands. He must still be growing; his wrists extended from his blue cuffs. I wanted
to kiss one, warm from the sun. Finally, he rolled back and sat up.

“Well . . . ?” I asked.

“First of all, your friend Emily Dickinson is her own person,” he said. “She isn’t copying anyone. Her ideas — that is, the
ones I can follow — are all hers. So is her style. After all the curlicues of Shelley and Byron — yes, even your Browning!
— these short, plain stanzas are very appealing. They almost remind me of hymns.”

“Because she loves hymns, of course! She says they’re the perfect verse form. Go on, Davy.”

“As I see it, her poems fall into three groups. The ones in this pile are impressive, unique. I understand them, even though
I sometimes reject their message.

“This second pile is harder to judge, Miranda. They are serious and sincere, but I just can’t follow them. She makes these
enormous leaps and expects me to stay right there with her.

“Sometimes she talks
to
God and then
about
Him — in the same poem. She seems to address God in a dozen different ways; it makes me uncomfortable.”

“I often feel she is speaking a different language,” I said.

“She uses
words
I know, but she manages to give them different meanings. Sometimes I feel she’s playing hide-and-seek with me!”

“I often tell her that. And the third pile, Ralph Waldo Farwell?”

Davy frowned. “I’m sorry, Miranda, but I have to tell you I think this last group is counterfeit — false, mannered. She’s
trying for an effect, wearing a disguise. She plays, she poses. I don’t believe these poems, and I don’t think Miss Dickinson
does either. Listen to this:

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 picked 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.