A Voice of Her Own

  A Voice of Her Own

  Becoming Emily Dickinson

  A NOVEL BY BARBARA DANA

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  Author’s Foreword

  Prologue

  Part I

  Stoneless Place

  A Wooden Way

  Vinnie Snores Loudly

  Frying Doughnuts

  Otis

  My Tenth Birthday

  Girl Friends

  Early Poems and Damnation

  Abby’s Fish

  Sophia

  Have You Ever Seen a Naked Boy?

  Stain of Death and My First Bible

  Lone Suppers

  The Me of Me

  No Other Bread

  A Fate Worse Than Death

  Part II

  Mount Holyoke Seminary

  The Dungeon Fear and the Condition of My Shoes

  Silent Friend

  A Place to Stand

  Awful Shock

  Whiskers

  Part III

  Ben

  Frozen at the Bone

  Carlo

  Fingels Cave and the Knowledge of My Destiny

  Abby Slips Away

  I Beat the Plate to Death

  Vesuvius Unchained

  Sue

  Stolen Time

  Do Girls Marry for Love?

  Father and the Aurora Borealis

  Father Puts Out the Fire

  Professor Tyler’s Woods

  Lonely upon the Shore

  My Philadelphia

  Home

  Author’s Notes

  Phrases

  Basic Facts about Emily Dickinson

  Further Reading

  About the Author

  Other Books by Barbara Dana

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  For

  Julie Harris

  There is always one thing to be grateful for—

  that one is one’s self & not somebody else.

  —E. Dickinson

  Author’s Foreword

  As I immersed myself in the poems and letters of Emily Dickinson, some of her favorite phrases found their way into the manuscript. I have included a list of these phrases, along with the page numbers on which they appear, at the end of the book. The poems in the text are not hers. They are my impressions of the kind of poetry Emily might have written in her early years. Emily had a unique way of expressing herself. This has been honored. However, in the interest of clarity, a few unusual grammatical uses have been omitted. Details appear in the Author’s Notes at the end of the book.

  As I tasted the gingerbread a thought took its place in my brain. No trumpets—just the being there—the arrival unnoticed, by me at any rate. It had been a Large Day—the rushing, the concern, the drama! And yours truly standing in the road—mute—my beloved Carlo at my side and the wagon that would carry us away.

  Prologue

  It was too dreary, the last of our family’s possessions piled by the side of the road as if Gypsies had relinquished squatter’s rights and were moving on to points unknown. Father had the situation well in hand. He stood by the wagon, instructing Horace and Little Pat as to how things should be loaded. There was an appropriate order—make no mistake about that—some to the front and some to the back! Certain things were to be placed above certain other things, which were to be placed below. Presumably, this had to do with weight, but one could not be sure. There were surprises, such as the parlor settee finding its place atop the small kitchen table with the narrow legs. It would appear that efficient stacking is no small matter. With Father there is a way to do things and there are many ways not to. No questions asked!

  It was too dreary, the last of our family’s possessions piled by the side of the road as if Gypsies had relinquished squatter’s rights and were moving on to points unknown. Father had the situation well in hand. He stood by the wagon, instructing Horace and Little Pat as to how things should be loaded. There was an appropriate order—make no mistake about that—some to the front and some to the back! Certain things were to be placed above certain other things, which were to be placed below. Presumably, this had to do with weight, but one could not be sure. There were surprises, such as the parlor settee finding its place atop the small kitchen table with the narrow legs. It would appear that efficient stacking is no small matter. With Father there is a way to do things and there are many ways not to. No questions asked!

  There had been much Hurrah over the move, what with Father’s determination to return to the Homestead, the endless renovations, Austin’s soon-to-be-built house next door and Mother’s anxious state regarding the wallpaper—not to mention Vinnie’s concern about the cats. I caught the excitement some, along with a sinking dread. When moving day came all I could feel was a locking back to stone as a nameless fear possessed me. I was leaving my Pleasant House on Pleasant Street—my Home for fifteen years—no small thing when one is twenty-four.

  “The table first and then the chair,” said Father, raising an index finger.

  Horace backed up with Vinnie’s chair, while Little Pat swung the end table up and over the edge of the wagon. Fanny twitched an ear. It was November, so it wasn’t because of a fly. I put it to boredom, but one never knows with a horse.

  I wondered where Vinnie was. Helping Mother, I presumed. My sister is two years younger than I am. Her “proper” name is Lavinia, but I don’t call her that. I sometimes wonder that we could have come from the same well. I honestly don’t know where I came from until I think of Austin. My dear brother—two years from me on the older side—surely began his journey from that selfsame place, wherever it was.

  Carlo lifted his nose. He stood at my side, my constant companion, a dog as large as myself. Father bought him for me shortly after my return from Mt Holyoke. Seven years of Love! He is golden red, with hair like mine and a head as large as Mother’s pillow. He is Newfoundland mostly, with a pinch of something else, Saint Bernard is my guess. Father says we can never be sure and I tend to agree with him in this instance.

  When at last the wagon pulled off, Carlo and I watched it go—all the way to the corner, where it turned and disappeared from sight. How long we stood outside my white fence I don’t know. I see it now, latched tight, my yard off bounds to such as me. We stood still—lost. I, at any rate, felt thrust forth without my skin. Carlo looked up at me, his eyes deep with questions, as we began walking our way to the Homestead, over the hill and across the field, because he would take up too much space in the wagon.

  The cats survived the ride to Father’s House—I shall always call it that—with little incident. However, moments after we arrived they were nowhere to be seen—and Vinnie running to and fro calling, “Drummydoodles!” “Roughnaps!” “Tootsie!”

  I ignored the situation and went about outside with Carlo to inspect the newness. The cupola on top of the roof was a capital addition. How I would have loved that when living at the Homestead in younger years. There was also an added part of the house to the side and back, and green shutters and freshly painted yellow brick. Now that was something to see!

  The yard had beautiful trees. Some I remembered—most certainly my favorite oak—but many I had no recollection of. Whether they were there when I was nine and looked so differently now as not to be recognized, or whether they were new I cannot say. Behind the house stood the barn. A weathervane had been placed upon its roof with a lacy ironwork flag to indicate the wind’s caprice—two red orange balls on a thin rod, a featherlike iron twig slanted at the top and letters to indicate the four directions. It brought me comfort to see it, a reminder of the Larger World—Circumference without edge.

  Throug
h the woods at the end of the path to the west, Austin’s house was to be built—Austin’s and dear Sue’s. I was delighted with the nearness of the site, a two-minute walk at most. Carlo padded along the path, pursuing I knew not what. He sprang around quickly, heading back in the direction of the Homestead. A squirrel had been the reason.

  The November wind was strong. It had begun to snow. It occurred to me that I should follow Carlo. I would explore inside. As I approached the back door I noticed Father, muffler all about, tossing crumbs to a group of waiting birds. Caretaker supreme! He can be exceedingly tender.

  There was much fuss over finding the cooking things. Despite Father’s detailed loading plan they were nowhere to be found, and Mother and I searching everywhere until it seemed they were to be lost forever. Vinnie was on her cat search and good for no one, unless you count the cats. At last the cooking things were located in a crate behind the stairs and Mother went to lie down. The house felt dark. I walked from room to room unable to settle my brain. I decided to bake some gingerbread. The simple act might be of comfort, I reasoned.

  Carlo lay by the stove in a deep and thankful sleep as I creamed the butter, whipped the cream, mixed the two lightly, sifted the flour, soda and salt together, added the ginger, and combined them with the butter, cream, and molasses. The dough was stiff as I pressed it into the cast-iron pan. Twenty-five minutes later—gingerbread! I never cease to wonder at the marvel of baking! Carlo lifted his head as I pulled the heavy pan from the oven. I let it cool a bit, broke off a small piece from the corner, and sampled it. That’s when I noticed the thought.

  So much has happened since I stood in this selfsame kitchen. I want to keep it forever.

  Carlo watched me chew. His eyes were deep and full of longing, but he didn’t move. He knew how it went. He would have to wait until after supper for his portion.

  Later that evening I showed Carlo his new sleeping place—my room! At last he could sleep with me—my own room, no sharing with Vinnie! I wished he could sleep on my bed, but that presented several problems, not the least of which was his size. Had we managed to arrange ourselves with mutual respect for the other’s well-being, doubtless morning would find one of us in a heap on the floor, and that was bound to be me! I considered risking the inconvenience for the joy of going off to sleep, an arm around his softness, but were I to find myself shivering on the floor as the sun stole through my window, Father would be angry. I would have to lie about it, and I have never cared for that. It leaves me without a place to put my feet.

  Carlo and I climbed the stairs. I could hear Vinnie’s voice coming from the far end of the hallway, presumably addressing the cats: “. . . Very bad! You must come when I call you!”

  I was tired from the day’s adventures, if one may call them that. I tried to list them all but soon fell into a gray place and lost all sense. I missed my Pleasant House, my orchard, my elm tree, my front door stone. I could not find myself in all the letting go.

  I looked about my room. I was pleased with the four tall windows, the high ceiling—higher than my Pleasant Street ceiling by far. There was my bed, waiting, the quilt already on. Mother must have put it there before her evening headache.

  Carlo sighed and lay down on the straw mat. I moved to the window. Outside, the sun was almost down. And the colors! Oh, the glory of that well-known surprise—that show of Nature’s majesty! So much had happened since my eyes had fallen on that selfsame scene. When I think I left a child and returned a woman—in name at least—it freezes my blood.

  I stood at the window. As a child I had shared a room with Vinnie on the east side of the house built by Grandfather Dickinson. Grandfather lost all his money founding the Academy and the College, so he had to rent out part of the Homestead to another family. Now we had the house to ourselves. I had the corner room, with windows south and west.

  I looked across the hayfield to the Pelham Hills beyond. How often as a child I had seen the orange and lavender fade on those very hills, my eyes wanting to hold the colors and never let them go. It had been fifteen years since I had looked out those windows. The gingerbread thought returned.

  Where are the years now, the weeks and the days? Gone forever?

  I went on thinking about how fine it is to have memories, to know where one came from and what one did with one’s life.

  How grand it would be to hold all my time on this Earth in my brain, to be recalled at some silver time when memories are one’s dearest friends.

  A song was in my mind. I don’t know why. It was one I had made up as a child. How old? There is a question. Four perhaps, or five. The song was a play on Words, my dearest friends, unless you count Carlo, which of course I do. The first verse went through my mind.

  Staircase, Watchcase—

  Staircase, Watchcase—

  All the little Sailor Boys

  Go marching down the Street—

  Someday I may know what I meant, and maybe not, but what of that? One thing is certain. I already knew one doesn’t have to rhyme.

  I opened my valise. My pencil and paper were on top of my clothes, waiting for me. I sat on the edge of the bed and began to write.

  Part I

  Girlhood

  “I wish we were always children.”

  Stoneless Place

  March 1840.

  My nine-year-old legs swung nervously back and forth beneath the table as we sat in the dining room, having our morning meal. Father’s face was pulled tighter than usual, his lips so thin, it looked as if he had no mouth. That was not a good sign. I could feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest—a humming-bird when the cat comes near the bush. Father is given to dark storms within that grip him without warning—to me, at any rate—pulling him back inside his skin until he all but disappears.

  My mind raced over everything I had done that morning in search of the culprit deed. I must have done something wrong. Father wiped his dry, straight lips, one sweep across, with his napkin.

  Oh, no!

  I knew what it was. Each morning we gathered in the parlor to address an eclipse—the one not seen—called our Lord. I can see the black Bible spread open on Father’s knees, his striped trousers, the thin, worn pages, the Scripture declaring its Hellfire Truth. That day I had yawned—and at the worst possible moment.

  It was my yawn!

  I looked at Austin. His head was bent, his eyes closed. Or was he staring at his hash? Vinnie was of similar demeanor. I had hoped for contact with some member of my regiment, but it was not to be. Mother stared at her teacup, her still and waiting fingers barely touching the handle.

  Could it really have been my yawn?

  I was no longer certain. Father has his notions, but a yawn within the family’s private world would not likely tempt such strong displeasure. And Father is especially lenient with me. I don’t know why. It brings me guilty pleasure.

  Mother sat still as a statue.

  Did they fight?

  I had never heard them fight, but often felt the heft in the room when they were not of the same mind. When that happened I feared a fight and wished it too, to clear the lead.

  Father stared at the grandfather clock on the far side of the room. He had taught me to tell time by that clock, or so he thought. I knew better. I had understood not one word! The concept of time would simply not take its place in my brain. Father seemed so proud of me, happy too, and proud of himself for taking the time to teach me. He thinks of himself as a generous man and I do believe he is, but the evidence hides in a deep place. I had found it that Time Teaching Day and was not eager to let it go.

  Mother lifted her teacup. “Emily, eat your breakfast.”

  I picked up my fork and moved it through my cold and waiting hash. Father was still staring at the clock, his eyes blank, as if he could not see, nor cared to. He was “behind his eyes,” as we called it. “Father’s gone behind his eyes,” Vinnie used to say. She told me once she wanted to get in there and be with him. Austin said it was impossible an
d I’ve found that to be true.

  My chest felt heavy. I could barely breathe. I would have given anything for an end to the silence. I tried to think of something to say—anything! My mind was blank. Father set down his napkin. I thought he was about to speak, but no luck was to be had in the matter. All at once, Vinnie’s prize cat, Roughnaps, rushed through the room in a great swoosh of tail and scampering paws.

  How daring! None of us would do a thing like that, though we might wish to.

  “We will be moving to a new house.”

  Father’s declaration landed like a stone. Mother set down her teacup.

  “Our new house will be on North Pleasant Street,” Father continued.

  “It’s lovely,” said Mother. She took a thoughtless sip of tea. “It’s near the Northrups.”

  “I don’t care about the Northrups!” I exclaimed.

  “Emily!” said Father, his displeasure with my outburst far from secret.

  Vinnie’s lower lip quivered the way it did when she needed to cry but did not dare. Austin was quiet, his dark eyes locked on Father.

  “Mother is right,” Father continued. “The house is lovely.”