Her gaze falling on her basket of wilting flowers at her feet, Emily reminded herself of her real reason for visiting her brother’s house. She was surely not advancing her hidden purposes by arguing with him, especially from a Foundation suddenly weakened. And as she did not intend to get involved with his grief-sired insanity, she could afford to let it slide.
“I’m sorry I made light of your new faith, Austin dearest. I realize now what drives you to embrace such a quest. Though I cannot bring myself to fully endorse such beliefs, I will reserve judgement on them, pending whatever new evidence you have for me.”
Austin grabbed his sister’s hands. “What a capital girl you are! I knew nothing could ever come between us!”
Picking up her basket, Emily said, “Perhaps you’d care to introduce me to these new friends of yours—?”
“Of course! We’re using the back parlor as a kind of headquarters to plan our assault on the hereafter. We should find most of the party there. Come!”
As they walked through the big house, Austin explained how he had chanced to meet his houseguests.
“When Sue and I were in Boston, I saw a poster advertising a Spiritualist lecture and demonstration to be given at Mechanics’ Hall. I attended, and the speech and exhibition so impressed me that I introduced myself afterwards to the lecturer and the medium who accompanied him. Learning of their audacious plans, and the imminent arrival of the scientist who was to assist them, I immediately enlisted as one of the party, offering all the help I could give.”
“Does Sue have any interest in all this?”
“Not at all. In fact, she tends to avoid our guests, and rather resents their presence.”
“I’m just as glad, for I do not know if I could bear to see her right now, so soon after learning of her sins.”
“No need to fear that. She’s been keeping mostly to her room.”
They stood now in front of the closed parlor door. Murmurs penetrated, two male voices and a female. Emily thought that neither of the masculine ones sounded like Whitman’s distinctive boom, and sought to learn more of him.
“You haven’t yet told me what brings a famous—even infamous—poet into your home.”
Austin smiled. “Ah, that was a curious accident. You see, Sue insisted that we pay a visit to Emerson, who was also in the city. I think she had some idea of getting him back to Amherst as her pet performing author again. When we were received by the old Sage at his hotel, we found Whitman with him. It turned out that Emerson was in something of a fix. He had volunteered to put Whitman up on his visit to Boston without first consulting his own wife, who, once she learned of it, absolutely refused to have such an ‘immoral beast’ in her home! Taking us aside, Emerson begged us to accommodate his friend at The Evergreens, and Sue readily consented, envisioning a social coup. Imagine her disgust, however, when the poet, learning of our Spiritual ambitions, cast his lot with us wholeheartedly!”
This last tidbit disturbed Emily, throwing doubt as it did on the poet’s faculties, but she withheld her censure.
“I understand,” continued Austin gleefully, “that you and Vinnie had a rather startling introduction to our unconventional Homer.”
Emily felt herself blush. “You understand aright.”
“With so many guests, there was a line for the bath this morning, and Whitman grew impatient. I told him he might avail himself of the facilities at The Homestead, but had no idea he would—”
At that moment the parlor door swung open.
A large buxom woman filled the doorframe. Draped with colorful shawls, a flowing gypsy kerchief tied around her head, gaudy earrings and bracelets aglitter at lobe and wrist, she struck a dramatic pose, one arm thrust forward, the other pressed against her brow. Although well into middle age and not conventionally beautiful (a distinct mustache graced her upper lip), she exuded the same kind of animal magnetism Emily had frequently sensed emanating from the most sought-after ballroom belles.
“Madame felt the radiance of souls beyond the barrier,” declaimed the medium, casting herself in the third person.
“Considering that we were speaking in normal conversational tones,” said Emily, “to drag our souls in were rather superfluous.”
The medium threw her arms down peevishly. “Faugh! Why do you bring such an unbeliever among us, cher Austin?”
“This is my sister, Emily. I wanted her to meet you. Emily, allow me to introduce Madame Hrose Selavy, Paris’s most distinguished Spiritualist.”
Madame Selavy’s attitude immediately grew effusive, though Emily thought to detect a steely glint of remnant hostility in her eyes. “Such an adorable little creature, possessed of a wit fully equal to her esteemed brother’s. Let me embrace you!”
Before Emily could protest, Madame Selavy clutched her in a smothering grip. She smelled of perspiration, wool and carnal musk.
Released, Emily reeled back. Before she could fully recover, Madame Selavy clutched her hand and dragged her into the parlor.
“Andrew! William! The much-spoken-of sister has arrived!”
Two men in their late youth—neither of whom was the ostrich herder Emily had seen—were seated at a table on which was spread an enormous chart, its upcurling corners weighted down with strange glass and metal contrivances looking like pronged vials sealed at both ends. A whale-oil lamp had been lit against the declining sun.
Jerking her hand out of the medium’s grip, Emily sought to regain her composure. Austin allowed her some time by performing introductions.
“Emily, this gentleman is the author of The Principles of Nature, Her Divine Revelations, and A Voice to Mankind, and the noted editor of a well-respected Spiritualist journal, The Univercoelum. In addition, he is a clairvoyant in his own right. It was he who predicted the appearance of the Fox Sisters years before their debut. May I present Mister Andrew Jackson Davis.”
Davis wore a barbered beard and tiny wire-rimmed spectacles, behind which dwelt disconcertingly unfocused blue eyes. He seemed unused to or removed from common social habits, and merely made a nod in Emily’s direction.
“And this other open-minded gentleman, Emily, represents the scientific half of our balance. It’s he who shall give our enterprise the intellectual solidity lacking in so many other ill-conceived ventures. I’m honored to present not only the discoverer of thallium, but also a follower and friend of D. D. Home himself. Emily, meet one of England’s finest intellects, William Crookes!”
The opposite of Davis, Crookes stepped forward with panache, took Emily’s hand, bowed and kissed it. His long narrow face and high brow were not unhandsome. Speaking with a charming British accent, he said, “Your brother has slighted you, Miss Dickinson, for he failed to mention that your eyes were the color of the finest sherry.”
Emily was completely flustered, and found herself, for once, at a loss for words.
Luckily, Davis broke the awkward moment. “I don’t mean to cut such a delightful interlude short, but may I remind everyone that we have much work ahead of us yet to do, before we re even out of the planning stages?”
Crookes relinquished Emily’s hand with a wry smile. “Ah, yes. The spirit world, which has existed for coundess centuries, cannot wait a single minute for us. Well, back to the grindstone, I fear. I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Dickinson.”
Emily allowed Austin to escort her out of the parlor. As she brushed past Madame Selavy, she plainly heard the words “Little snip!” hissed in her ear, although Madame’s lips appeared to remain fixed.
Out in the hall, Austin said, “It only remains for you to meet queer old Walt. He probably out with Henry and the birds.”
Gathering her wits, Emily said, “Yes, I’d like that, if you please.”
As they headed toward the rear door of The Evergreens, Austin said, “I don’t think I mentioned Henry. He’s Walt’s traveling companion. Sutton, I belie
ve. They used to work together on the Brooklyn Eagle. Young Sutton was a printer’s devil while Walt was editor. Henry has been invaluable with the ostriches. He seems to have a knack for getting them to behave. Did I tell you about Andy’s plans for the ostriches? No matter, you’ll learn soon enough. Well, here we are!”
They had stepped outside. A newly erected pen dominated the backyard of The Evergreens. In this makeshift corral, six or more ostriches sat. Watching over them with soft clucking tones was the personable young man she had first seen.
“Hen!” called Austin. “Where’s Walt?”
Before Henry could answer, a resonant voice came from behind them.
“The green globe’s favorite loafer stands firm right here.”
Emily spun around with pounding heart.
Ever since Father had terminated her schooling at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary on the grounds of “constitutional weakness” (in that same year the Fox Sisters were first emitting their rappings), Emily had longed for a renewal of the intellectual companionship and stimulation so fleetingly tasted. When, not long ago, she had begun seriously writing poetry, the need had grown even deeper, an ache that the dull and fusty correspondence with the Reverend Wadsworth could not appease.
And now, standing before her (clothed, thank God!) in full corporeal splendor, was perhaps her first, last, only and best chance for such communion: a living, published poet.
Trembling, Emily thrust forward her basket of flowers.
“My introduction, sir!”
Walt accepted the offering gently. She saw his keen eyes alight on the neatly stitched and ribbon-trussed leaflet of her poetry half-hidden at the bottom.
“Something more than it first appears, I think,” said Walt, and winked.
Emboldened, Emily said, “My Basket contains Firmaments, sir!”
“But is it big enough, ma femme, to contain me?”
4
“INEBRIATE OF AIR—AM I—”
ON THE WALL ABOVE the piano that stood on the flower-decorated Brussels carpet in The Homestead’s front parlor hung an engraving called “The Stag at Bay.” The noble venison—caught out in the open and surrounded by silently yapping dogs, the mounted hunter aiming his perpetually poised spear at its chest—was plainly ready to expire from sheer terror.
Precisely so had Emily felt, as soon as Whitman had uttered his veiled challenge regarding the capacity of her trundle.
A sweat had sprung out upon her forehead and her limbs had seemed not her own. The sky—the sky seemed to weigh so much, she was suddenly convinced that Heaven would break away and tumble Blue on her—
So she had fled.
Like a child affrighted by shadows, she had run from the backyard of The Evergreens, through the intervening copse, and into the shelter of her bedroom in The Homestead.
There she had stayed for the next two days, huddling beneath her quilts. Even Carlo had been excluded.
(And what of all further possible embarrassments should come upon her at the same time but her dreaded menses! That Doctor Duponco’s French Golden Periodical Pills had somewhat alleviated the curse was small comfort. Where was the Pill she could take for her Nerves?)
Between bouts of self-chastisement and tears, Emily in her head had molded a poem, that the period of pain be not entirely a loss.
A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—
I’ve heard the Hunter tell—
’Tis but the Ecstasy of death—
And then the Brake is still!
The Smitten Rock that gushes!
The trampled Steel that springs!
A Cheek is always redder
Just where the Hectic stings!
Mirth is the Mail of Anguish—
In which it Cautious Arm,
Lest anybody spy the blood
And “you’re hurt” exclaim!
She had intuited Whitman’s allegory as soon as he had spoken. The double meanings which tripped so easily off her own tongue and pen still had the capacity to startle her when issuing unexpectedly from another.
Whitman had been proposing—nay, commanding!—a full and open relationship with her. It is not enough, he might as well have plainly said, that you give me these scribbled-over scraps of paper, expecting my opinion in return (valuing what you earlier slighted, in the light of my newly discovered fame). No, if you approach me, you must do so nakedly. You must deal with me as woman to man, as soul to soul, holding back nothing, if you would have the real juice of my fruits, the true meat of my tongue.
And this was just what Emily doubted she could do.
Although she longed to.
Only once had she opened herself up wholly to another.
And look how that had turned out.
Not that dear George had been at fault. There were few men who could stand up to Edward Dickinson’s displeasure, and dreamy, intellectual George Gould—Emily’s senior, Austin’s friend and a crack student at Amherst—had not been one of them. When the Squire had discovered their innocent yet fervid affair and banished George, neither he nor Emily had found it in their power to protest, though both their futures were at stake.
And then had come Emily’s self-imposed White Election: her Celestial Wedding, symbolized by her unchanging snowy attire, in place of the earthly one she swore she would never now know.
How, with such a trial behind her, could she find the strength to give to Whitman was he was obviously demanding?
No, it was impossible. . . .
A peremptory knock sounded at Emily’s door. Before she could reply, the door swung open.
In stomped Lavinia, bearing a supper tray.
“I swear, Emily—you and Mother will be the death of me! Two bigger babies I’ve never seen! I’ve a good mind to marry and be shed of you both! Then we’d see how long this household would stay afloat!”
Emily sat up straight in bed, intrigued by her sister’s indignation. “And who would you marry, Vinnie? Is there a potential suitor I should know about?”
“Humph! Don’t you worry, I could scare up a husband if I put my mind to it. And I might just yet. Well, here’s your supper. And mind you—no complaints that my Indian bread’s not as fine as yours!”
Vinnie deposited the tray and turned to leave. At the door, she paused.
“I don’t suppose you’re interested in news of Father?”
“Is he still in Boston?”
“Further away than that. Although the Party could not convince him to run this year, they prevailed upon him to help their Presidential candidate, John Bell. The Squire’s on his way to Washington, and points south and west. There’s no telling how long he’ll be gone. And we should all be thankful for his absence. If he were here, and forced to witness what Austin and those loco cronies of his are up to, he’d be positively apoplectic! Why, the whole town’s in an uproar as it is.”
Emily’s pain had almost driven from her mind Austin and his wild plans for a journey to the beyond. Now all the strange atmosphere at The Evergreens enveloped her again.
“What’s Austin doing?”
Vinnie tilted her nose up and sniffed. “If you want to find out you’ll have to get up. I’m not Harper’s Weekly.”
And with that, Emily’s sister slammed the door.
Five minutes later, her supper uneaten, Emily was dressed and on the staircase.
At the rear entry, she hesitated. Could she really nerve herself up for another expedition to the mad menagerie her brother’s home had become? What if that bestial Madame Selavy grabbed her again? What if the dapper Mister Crookes essayed another buss upon her hand? What if the fanatical eyes of Mister Davis transfixed her once more like a Butterfly upon a Card? What if she met Sue, her Lady Macbeth sister-in-law? What if she met Whitman!? How she regretted now giving him her poems, those Keys to the Inner Chambers of her Heart. . . .
Forcing herself to subdue all these jeering mental demons, Emily threw open the back door.
Heavy-blossomed clumps of lilac, white and purple both, flanked the portal, their sweet scent diffusing like a cloud around the stoop.
With his shaggy bare head buried deep within the drooping clusters, inhaling great ursine snuffling draughts of their inebriating fragrance, stood Whitman.
Motionless, Emily froze and burned simultaneously. It was not Frost alone, for she felt Siroccos crawl upon her Flesh. But neither was it solely Fire, for her Marble feet could keep a Chancel cool.
Whitman withdrew his head from the flowers. Tiny perfect florets clung to his hair and beard, rendering him a veritable Pan. His open-necked workman’s shirt revealed a pelt of chest hair—last noticed by Emily in a soapy state—similarly bedizened.
“When lilacs in the dooryard bloom,” declaimed Whitman, “I exult with the ever-returning spring!”
Then, replacing atop his crown the floppy hat he had been holding, and gently taking Emily’s hand, he said, “Come, ma femme, let us stroll a bit.”
Helpless, Emily followed.
They meandered for a short time among the flower beds—the children so lovingly pampered by their mistress—without saying anything. Then Whitman spoke.
“Those were not merely poems you gave me. Not a book alone. Whoso touches them, touches a woman.”
These words were more than Emily had ever hoped to hear in her lifetime. Willing herself not to faint, she conjured up an ingenuous question in reply.
“You would say, then, that my poems are—alive?”
Whitman gestured widely, to take in the whole green scene through which they promenaded with hands so implausibly conjoined. Would any townsfolk, seeing her now, not think her the Belle of Amherst indeed?
“Is what you see before your eyes this minute not indisputably alive? Are you yourself not alive, the blood pulsing in you and the smoke of your own breath steaming forth? How could anything that issues truly from one alive not itself be alive? Have no doubt! They live indeed! The divine afflatus surges through them as surely as it does through the song of a lonely thrush.”
The Steampunk Trilogy Page 22
