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April 26th, 1862 AD (search for this): chapter 20
enigma to him, as to me. It is hard to say what answer was made by me, under these circumstances, to this letter. It is probable that the adviser sought to gain time a little and find out with what strange creature he was dealing. I remember to have ventured on some criticism which she afterwards called surgery, and on some questions, part of which she evaded, as will be seen, with a naive skill such as the most experienced and worldly coquette might envy. Her second letter (received April 26, 1862) was as follows:-- Mr. Higginson,--Your kindness claimed earlier gratitude, but I was ill, and write to-day from my pillow. Thank you for the surgery; it was not so painful as I supposed. I bring you others, as you ask, though they might not differ. While my thought is undressed, I can make the distinction; but when I put them in the gown, they look alike and numb. You asked how old I was? I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir. I had a terror since Sept
July, 1862 AD (search for this): chapter 20
t Had it for me a morn, And it should lift its purple dikes And shatter me with dawn! But, will you be my preceptor, Mr. Higginson? With this came the poem since published in one of her volumes and entitled Renunciation ; and also that beginning Of all the sounds dispatched abroad, thus fixing approximately the date of those two. I must soon have written to ask her for her picture, that I might form some impression of my enigmatical correspondent. To this came the following reply, in July, 1862:-- Could you believe me without? I had no portrait, now, but am small, like the wren ; and my hair is bold like the chestnut bur; and my eyes, like the sherry in the glass, that the guest leaves. Would this do just as well? It often alarms father. He says death might occur and he has moulds of all the rest, but has no mould of me; but I noticed the quick wore off those things, in a few days, and forestall the dishonor. You will think no caprice of me. You said Dark. I know
August 16th, 1870 AD (search for this): chapter 20
. To an emigrant, country is idle except it be his own. You speak kindly of seeing me; could it please your convenience to come so far as Amherst, I should be very glad, but I do not cross my father's ground to any house or town. Of our greatest acts we are ignorant. You were not aware that you saved my life. To thank you in person has been since then one of my few requests. . .. You will excuse each that I say, because no one taught me. At last, after many postponements, on August 16, 1870, I found myself face to face with my hitherto unseen correspondent. It was at her father's house, one of those large, square, brick mansions so familiar in our older New England towns, surrounded by trees and blossoming shrubs without, and within exquisitely neat, cool, spacious, and fragrant with flowers. After a little delay, I heard an extremely faint and pattering footstep like that of a child, in the hall, and in glided, almost noiselessly, a plain, shy little person, the face wi
May 15th, 1886 AD (search for this): chapter 20
this arrived:-- Dear friend,--I think of you so wholly that I cannot resist to write again, to ask if you are safe? Danger is not at first, for then we are unconscious, but in the after, slower days. Do not try to be saved, but let redemption find you, as it certainly will. Love is its own rescue; for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems. Your scholar. These were my earliest letters from Emily Dickinson, in their order. From this time and up to her death (May 15, 1886) we corresponded at varying intervals, she always persistently keeping up this attitude of Scholar, and assuming on my part a preceptorship which it is almost needless to say did not exist. Always glad to hear her recite, as she called it, I soon abandoned all attempt to guide in the slightest degree this extraordinary nature, and simply accepted her confidences, giving as much as I could of what might interest her in return. Sometimes there would be a long pause, on my part, after wh
September (search for this): chapter 20
ght not differ. While my thought is undressed, I can make the distinction; but when I put them in the gown, they look alike and numb. You asked how old I was? I made no verse, but one or two, until this winter, sir. I had a terror since September, I could tell to none; and so I sing, as the boy does of the burying ground, because I am afraid. You inquire my books. For poets, I have Keats, and Mr. and Mrs. Browning. For prose, Mr. Ruskin, Sir Thomas Browne, and the Revelations. I w this letter in pencil, written from what was practically a hospital for her, though only for weak eyes:-- Dear friend,--Are you in danger? I did not know that you were hurt. Will you tell me more? Mr. Hawthorne died. I was ill since September, and since April in Boston for a physician's care. He does not let me go, yet I work in my prison, and make guests for myself. Carlo did not come, because that he would die in jail; and the mountains I could not hold now, so I brought but t
May (search for this): chapter 20
disapproved it, and thought me unfit, she would believe you. I am sorry to flee so often to my safest friend, but hope he permits me. In all this time — nearly eight years-we had never met, but she had sent invitations like the following: Amherst. Dear friend,--Whom my dog understood could not elude others. I should be so glad to see you, but think it an apparitional pleasure, not to be fulfilled. I am uncertain of Boston. I had promised to visit my physician for a few days in May, but father objects because he is in the habit of me. Is it more far to Amherst? You will find a minute host, but a spacious welcome .. If I still entreat you to teach me, are you much displeased? I will be patient, constant, never reject your knife, and should my slowness goad you, you knew before myself that Except the smaller size No lives are round. These hurry to a sphere And show and end. The larger slower grow And later hang; The summers of Hesperides Are long. Afterwards
June (search for this): chapter 20
ensed summary of the whole experience of a long life:--We play at paste Till qualified for pearl; Then drop the paste And deem ourself a fool. The shapes, though, were similar And our new hands Learned gem-tactics, Practicing sands. Then came one which I have always classed among the most exquisite of her productions, with a singular felicity of phrase and an aerial lift that bears the ear upward with the bee it traces:--The nearest dream recedes unrealized. The heaven we chase, Like the June bee Before the schoolboy, Invites the race, Stoops to an easy clover, Dips — evades — teases — deploys-- Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace, Heedless of the boy Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky. Homesick for steadfast honey,-- Ah! the bee flies not Which brews that rare variety. The impression of a wholly new and original poetic genius was as distinct on my mind at the first reading of these four poems as it is now, after half a century of further knowledge; and wit<
1862 AD (search for this): chapter 20
ise. I shall observe your precept, though I don't understand it, always. I marked a line in one verse, because I met it after I made it, and never consciously touch a paint mixed by another person. I do not let go it, because it is mine. Have you the portrait of Mrs. Browning? Persons sent me three. If you had none, will you have mine? Your scholar. A month or two after this I entered the volunteer army of the Civil War, and must have written to her during the,winter of 1862-63 from South Carolina or Florida, for the following reached me in camp :-- Amherst. Dear friend,--I did not deem that planetary forces annulled, but suffered an exchange of territory, or world. I should have liked to see you before you became improbable. War feels to me an oblique place. Should there be other summers, would you perhaps come? I found you were gone, by accident, as I find systems are, or seasons of the year, and obtain no cause, but suppose it a treason of progress
1863 AD (search for this): chapter 20
ou the portrait of Mrs. Browning? Persons sent me three. If you had none, will you have mine? Your scholar. A month or two after this I entered the volunteer army of the Civil War, and must have written to her during the,winter of 1862-63 from South Carolina or Florida, for the following reached me in camp :-- Amherst. Dear friend,--I did not deem that planetary forces annulled, but suffered an exchange of territory, or world. I should have liked to see you before you became en March is scarcely on. The robin is the one That overflows the noon With her cherubic quantity, An April but begun. The robin is the one That, speechless from her nest, Submits that home and certainty And sanctity are best. In the summer of 1863 I was wounded, and in hospital for a time, during which came this letter in pencil, written from what was practically a hospital for her, though only for weak eyes:-- Dear friend,--Are you in danger? I did not know that you were hurt. Will
June 8th, 1862 AD (search for this): chapter 20
glanced with rapid eyes That hurried all around; They looked like frightened beads, I thought; He stirred his velvet head Like one in danger, cautious. I offered him a crumb, And he unrolled his feathers And rowed him softer home Than oars divide the ocean, Too silver for a seam- Or butterflies, off banks of noon, Leap, plashless as they swim. It is possible that in a second letter I gave more of distinct praise or encouragement, as her third is in a different mood. This was received June 8, 1862. There is something startling in its opening image; and in the yet stranger phrase that follows, where she apparently uses mob in the sense of chaos or bewilderment: Dear Friend,--Your letter gave no drunkenness, because I tasted rum before. Domingo comes but once; yet I have had few pleasures so deep as your opinion, and if I tried to thank you, my tears would block my tongue. My dying tutor told me that he would like to live till I had been a poet, but Death was much of mob a
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