A Voice of Her Own Read online

  We were talking quite a lot at that time within our girlhood circle as regarded Love. Everyone was talking about it. Why, we were young ladies! Before we knew it, we would be married! It was too thrilling! And did we dare to consider the “Whiskers staff”? We did! I wondered that there could be room! And wouldn’t it hurt? I imagined that private staff to be of ample size. How it could fit was beyond my mind’s imagining. This question was never discussed among the members of our girlhood Circle as it seemed too private a concern, to me at any rate. I can only guess at the reasons within the hearts of my dear friends for remaining silent on the matter. It seemed to me that the weight of these unspoken questions brought a certain weight to the air itself.

  As if to say “Keep your mind on lofty matters,” Father bought me my first Bible. I knew he could not read my thoughts, yet wondered still—

  Could he?

  Receiving a Bible of one’s own is a special event, as one shares the family Bible until considered to be of reasonable age and exemplary character. It was good that he had been kept in the dark as to the degree of wickedness in the mind of his “perfect little girl,” or else I would never have received that merry book! It was a most handsome edition, and the fact that it was my own lent a preciousness to the Book that could not be denied. Though I had resisted the hand stretched out to so lowly a bad one as myself, still the matter of religion was and is still one that occupies a high station in my mind. My favorite part of the Bible is the Revelations. How Large they are! What subjects! Wormwood, the Smoky Pit, the Locusts and the Beast, not to mention the Wrath of God! I very much enjoy the Gates of Pearl, the Glory of the City, the Angel with the Little Book, and my special favorite, the “Gem” chapter! Jasper, Sapphire, Emerald, Gold! How thrilling!

  There was yet another revival that year, December, I think it was, but I did not go. Young and old alike thronged about in meetings and I attending not a single one! I felt I had been so easily swayed the last time into believing I had accepted Christ into my heart when in fact I had not. Many were saved, however. Most often it was the ones who most vigorously scorned the offerings of Christ’s bounty and protection who were most quickly brought to accept his Truth. It was wonderful to see. I felt quick remorse as regarded my power to acknowledge Christ’s place in my heart. I hoped most sincerely to awaken one morning and find him there. I prayed that one fine Sabbath day I might be flooded with desire to cast all concerns upon my Savior, that he might carry my burdens, that he might protect me, that he might point the way. I longed to crave his mind and not my own, but such was not the case. I did not desire to give my mind to Christ and could not lie about it. As far as I could tell, the question of Faith had been taken to a land of dubious meaning. It seemed one must behave in just the ways prescribed by others—by men I did not know and did not often agree with. I have always found my place with Faith, but Faith without questions seems a sorry exercise.

  Religion to one side, the start to that winter was truly grand. New friends came to Amherst that fall, Olivia and Eliza Coleman. Their father, Lyman Coleman, had come to take charge of the Academy and also to teach Greek and German at the College. They were great girls, Eliza, twelve and frail, Olivia seventeen and in possession of beauty so extreme as to provoke jealousy among all the girls. They were not part of our Magic Circle, but jealousy was not the reason. Olivia was too old and Eliza too young to appreciate our activities, which were many indeed. Though serious matters had deepened our understanding, we often cut a sprightly caper—a roguish band! Harriet was always making a joke, Sarah, calm and lovely, Abby, the studious one, Abiah, adventuresome yet extremely self-possessed, and Me! Modesty forbids comment here.

  As the snow fell—and I, fourteen at last—we decided to meet secretly in the woods several afternoons during the week to discuss all manner of things past and current, with ample time given to the contemplation of the future. Imagination knew no bounds. We gave each other secret names. I was Socrates, by reason not only of my infinite wisdom but, just as importantly, of my questioning nature. Abiah was Plato, student of Socrates—me. I had been in Amherst far longer than ’Biah and thereby had much to teach her regarding the ins and outs of the surroundings. And of course, ’Biah was writing a book, as the original Plato had done. Sarah was Virgil. I forget why. Abby and Harriet had names so secret we had, at their request, taken an oath in blood never to reveal them.

  At our meetings one was always in for a surprise. “First order of business,” Abby would say from her seat upon the large, flat stump of the oak and snow all around.

  “Whiskers!” ’Biah would shout.

  “Whiskers!” the group would echo, and off we would go! The Whisker List in all its glory! Abiah was the most constant of the group. Her Ideal Beau D. was number one for the entire year. It got so we joked we needn’t hear from her. We would go about the circle, each girl speaking the name of her current Whisker Choice, with exclamations, approvals and notes of surprise from all the others. Harriet was always changing her mind. Hardly a week would pass but she would adjust her selection. At one point she even requested the privilege of listing three at the same time, but was denied that opportunity. “Enough is enough,” said Abby, and the rest of us agreed.

  I fancied two boys at the time. Michael Stubbins was one, a thoughtful soul with light hair, who rode his horse to school. Jake Cutler was another. Jake looked most finely and always carried a book, a custom that attracted my attention. Apparently, however, I did not attract his attention, as he never spoke to me.

  Boys were not the sole topic to be covered in our secret meetings. All five of us were greatly impressed by Shakespeare. We secretly called him The Master and soon formed The Shakespeare Society as part of our “inside” Magic Circle activities, reading his plays out loud. I especially loved reading the part of Hamlet and also Thisbe in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Too much cannot be said for a little humor.

  Lone Suppers

  My fifteenth year brought many changes, and beneath, a thorn that never left my side. Austin was once more sent away. I was angry at Father for his decision to banish my brother—again! Austin had already spent one term in exile. It was too much! Williston Seminary may be a fine school, but I don’t think it deserved to have my brother in its company while his loving sister was forced to bear the long and many months without him.

  “Why must Austin be sent away to school?” I asked one evening shortly before his impending departure. We sat in the parlor, Father, Mother, Vinnie, and me. Austin was out in the barn.

  Father looked up from “his” Springfield Daily Republican. “Children must spend some time away at school,” he said.

  “I don’t see why.”

  “It strengthens them.”

  Mother sneezed. She was darning socks.

  “They return with added fiber.”

  The fact did not claim my interest.

  Father put down “his” paper and looked at me. “You will leave too, Emily.”

  I felt a chill.

  “When you finish at the Academy, you will spend one year at Mount Holyoke Seminary.”

  Mother sneezed again.

  “Are you sick?” Father asked her.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’d best be in bed.”

  Mother ignored him. I imagine she might have liked for me to remain at home.

  “Young ladies are fortunate to have the opportunity of college these days,” continued Father, “for at least a year.”

  “Where will I go?” asked Vinnie. She sat in the chair by the window, her latest treasure, Noopsie Possum, curled up on her lap. Still a kitten, Noopsie Possum had received her name by reason of her habit of falling into a doze in times of concern. Like me! I was fading into a cushion of Fear, drifting farther and farther away from the room, from Father’s knees, his folded-down newspaper, Mother’s anxious expression, her pile of waiting socks.

  “We’ll see,” said Father, in answer to Vinnie’s inquiry as to the direction her life might be
expected to take. Vinnie pursued the matter no further. I can only assume the gloom of Father’s disapproval, had she continued to question him, seemed hardly worth it. I too remained silent and made my mind up that it would never happen.

  But of course it did. I tried to ease the pain of my brother’s absence by sitting in his place at the table, sparing myself the disappointment of looking at his empty chair. His absence was awful. Oh, I did so hope it was awful for him too! I hate not to be missed. Ned, Austin’s sorrel horse who can step over a barrel, went off his feed.

  Before leaving, Austin had given me his Latin book for use at school. I shared the book with Abby. We sat at the selfsame table, the book between us, our hearts as one. And what a charming book it was—Virgil! A good two inches thick, of the softest leather and the color of a mustard seed. The book was called The Works of Virgil with Copious Notes—over five hundred pages! I wrote my name inside the front cover straightway, so there could be no doubt as to whose book it was. “Miss Emily E. Dickinson, Amherst, Mass.” That said it!

  I enjoyed the study of that ancient language, the root of so many languages to come. So literal, so practical, so cumbersome, with its merry tales of legions traipsing about on all those roads, conquering whomever they saw. Enticing as it was, I must say our teacher—thin neck, large chin; I drew a little portrait on page 215—could at times assign far too much work. I used to fancy writing comments in the margins when the situation threatened to get out of hand. “1 week from Monday—how Mean” and things like that. Abby wrote in the book as well. We both pressed flowers between the pages. I hope they stay there forever, but one never knows what will happen. Forever is a long time.

  I find there are times when it’s the same old sixpence and nothing new seems to happen, or ever will happen, it seems—and boredom blights my blood. Then come the times when life changes so fast, I feel I never will catch up. Austin left and after Christmas I lost Abiah. With me but ten short months—a part of me—and then no more. I felt I should never adjust to the Circumstance. A certain Miss Campbell’s School in Springfield had claimed her, a transfer organized by her father, a Deacon no less and no doubt filled with all sorts of intelligent opinions as regarded the education of proper New England young ladies. It was a time for losing—Austin gone, Abiah gone and soon the breakup of our Magic Circle. Harriet went to Hartford, Sarah went—I don’t remember where she went—and that left only two, Abby and me, hardly a circle.

  That spring Vinnie went to Boston for a fortnight with Father. I would have gone too had it not been for debility and a lingering cough that bound me to house and bed. Vinnie is a great deal stronger than I, a fact that vexes me and brings about no small desire on my part that the circumstance might be reversed. I possess a truly jealous heart.

  I missed Vinnie during her brief excursion with Father. She was becoming a good deal more enjoyable with age. Her life seemed less “all cats,” a decided improvement. Although she continued to fuss over each murderous ball of fluff, we had begun having some fine times. Imagination, ever present with us, sported recklessly, capturing with enviable insight the most telling and amusing details regarding the habits of unsuspecting townsfolk. Not a person was free from our razor-sharp perception! “Tompkins!” Vinnie would say in deep-throated ceremonious tone. “Mind you lie by that rock until I return. No food for the wandering!” Tompkins was the smallest dog either of us had ever seen, a shaggy coat obscuring questioning eyes. He belonged to Mr. Enfort, who taught history and coughed whenever he mentioned his mother. Vinnie would cough—“ugh—ugh”—and then, “My mother always taught me to pursue my studies—ugh—ugh! Lie down, Tompkins!”

  Vinnie got just the right sound in her voice, just the right stoop of the back, shuffle of the foot, or waving of the hands that caught each poor unsuspecting individual in all his or her ridiculous propriety. Then I would add my rapier-like wit to the event, forming the precise turn of phrase that none other could possibly have uttered and we were off, rolling about the grass in gales of laughter and nearly no breath left to keep us alive!

  Home was a quiet place that fortnight alone with Mother. However, once up from the covers, I did enjoy our Lone Suppers. Mother had named them. I called the sharing of those meals Chicken Time, a phrase borrowed from the old familiar “just us chickens,” meaning all others were gone. I don’t know where that came from. It was just us two at the table, at whatever time might suit us, no need to sit up straight, no need to fold one’s napkin, to watch what one said or how one said it lest it offend our Protector. Mother was most at ease, which I enjoyed extremely.

  The days were getting longer, with ample light until 8. oclock at least. After supper Mother and I would finish the chores only to rest in the parlor, I most often in Father’s chair with a book, Mother on the lounge with her sewing or embroidery. Sometimes I read to her from the Republican. I enjoyed those evenings very much, the quiet and Mother relaxed, for her at any rate, the light slowly fading and the purple and pink of the west, and soon time to light the oil lamp and close the shutters. Mother was working on a beautiful embroidery, a summer scene containing a measure of pastoral beauty as to be quite thrilling. The pattern was entirely her own. It never ceases to startle me when the depth of Mother’s spirit makes itself known. It bursts forth from a hibernation so deep, one cannot help but wonder if it ever lived at all. Yet there it is, imagination, power, the will to have a voice of her own! It takes my breath away! And all that soon again to slumber, given up for dead, locked tight behind the narrow walls of convention, of Fear, of thinking only of others and no Self left to do the thinking. Obligation only. No thought abounds—a wooden way of pleasing Father, keeping his house, making no trouble, forgetting her wishes, ignoring her pleasure. The clothes are clean, the pie is hot, but where is she? I longed for her, and most especially so after such an unexpected glimpse into her deepest Self, where we could be—and were—as one. Spare me the agony of “living” as Mother! Grant me a straighter way!

  I thought about this quite a bit and soon began a little poem. It told of a girl who could never speak, but only went into the woods and there she could tell the animals what she thought about all manner of things. There she had a voice of her own. This gave her great joy and a sense of purpose. The animals were still and watching and showed no sign of needing her to be another way. When something is most important to me and I do not want to lose it, I gather it into a poem.

  The Me of Me

  It was a pleasant summer. Not perfect—but pleasant just the same. The good outweighed the bad. How grand it is in life when one can say that! I found myself writing a few more poems—three, I believe, or it may have been four. Summer inspires my lyrical side—long days, sun and flowers, the song of birds, and peace and bees and poems alone under the tree. One day when I was in the garden and thinking of a poem about a worm I was watching, it occurred to me that I was with my Self. It was a funny poem and nothing to show a brain in the head of the writer but as I thought about it, I and Me were one. That is the only way I can say it. I was surprised to note how rarely I had been possessed of that feeling. One would consider it a birthright, but it is not, or perhaps it is and I was left in the dark. I cannot tell. But there I was among the daisies, my mind on words to capture that one fat worm, its fright at being so rudely uncovered, its haste in returning to the familiar, no-light dark of the underearth—not a moment to spare! I had come Home. I recalled having had that same feeling in lesser measure while writing compositions at school. In a composition one may go on and on about one thing and another and have great fun, but a poem is a like a jewel. It is as it is, and that is that.

  I had many classes that summer as school is a year-round affair. Abby and I worked hard and experienced quick gratitude for our wonderful teachers. Professor Hitchcock lectured in Geology at the College. We would never miss a time to hear him speak of mountains pushing up from the Earth, of glaciers and dinosaurs, those great leaden creatures that left their footprints for scientists to
marvel at for eons of time. It was thrilling to hear Dr. Hitchcock discuss the connection between science and religion, as the subject of reconciling the two had been of long concern. “Far from opposing each other, science proves religion,” he said, which had been my opinion since noting the pattern of the seasons and the punctuality of the robin’s return.

  I wrote several letters to Abiah that summer and received a few in return. I longed for more—at least in equal measure to my own—but that was not to be. Truth can be bitter, but one must bear the brunt. We had much to share, especially as we were both taking lessons “on the piny” as she liked to call it, the real name being “piano.” Father had bought me my own! It took its place in the parlor as if it were always meant to be there, dark brown, with the gold letters—HALLET, DAVIS & CO.—and below, in smaller gold—BOSTON. I loved the “dragon legs,” carved and ornate. I especially admired the round stool with the garnet cushion. Mother brought down her favorite lamp from upstairs and placed it on the piano on a doily she had crocheted some months before. I loved the lamp’s square marble base, the gold pillar crowned with Saturn and the pink globe with the roses.