Lives Like Loaded Guns_ Emily Dickinson and Her Family's Feuds - Lyndall Gordon [11]
Her mother had conformed more closely to the mild virtues of the advice book: she had been commended at school for punctuality, application and discreet behaviour (though amongst her obedient notes on sermons there is a scribbled appeal to a young teacher: ‘Oh! Caroline, remember me for forever’). At the age of twenty-two she met Mr Dickinson, aged twenty-three, who was seated next to her at a chemistry lecture during a visit he made to her home town of Monson, Massachusetts. That year, 1826, he was setting up as a lawyer in Amherst, and ready to take a wife. She too was ready to marry a trustworthy man who may not have shown his feelings but knew his mind.
His overture was ‘unexpected’, she told him; there had been no ‘intimations’ of interest. ‘When I reflect that I am writing to one with whom my acquaintance has been so short, I can hardly exercise the freedom I would desire. Still I will say to you that I realised much happiness in your society while at Monson.’ She asked if she might defer a more definite response until she was permitted to see him again, ‘yet I am sensible that you have conferred your friendship upon one who is undeserving’.
Becomingly modest as she is, her voice is not entirely passive when she intimates a need for ‘freedom’ of expression between herself and the near stranger who might become her husband. Though both were of marriageable age, it was not a quick courtship. This was not necessarily because they were too restrained for undue urgency, but most likely for the practical reason that a man had to prove his ability to support a family. Emily’s father Joel Norcross was prosperous, while young Mr Dickinson, though able, had to deal with what used to be called embarrassments: debts. It was a matter of honour to clear his father’s debts. So, for two years, Edward Dickinson rode the twenty miles from Amherst to visit Emily Norcross every four or six weeks. She had a private reason for delay. At long intervals, and with undemanding quietness, she voiced an unsatisfied need: ‘I am sensible that I have never exercised that freedom which I presume you have desired me to.’
Presume? It’s a troubled question, with a light finger on the pulse of a relationship. It’s doubtful if Mr Dickinson entertained this desire for when, eventually, he made his formal proposal of marriage she hesitated for two months. She even withheld an answer during one of his visits, before she picked up her pen.
‘I think you must be convinced ere this that your intercourse with me is mutual although I have not explained to you my views as I have wished . . .’. She did not think it immodest to tell her future husband that she looked forward to his parting kiss, but though he may have felt the same or more he could not bring out so intimate a word: he looks forward to a ‘-s’.
Mr Dickinson, insulated by reserve, was not one to enquire into feelings, though he had them. His manner was stern; with hard, keen sense and practical energy he rapped out his intentions. The Revd Mr Bennett counselled ‘discipline of the imagination’. Unless a woman reined in her imagination she would be exposed to disappointments that, he warned, ‘create disgust’ - a disgust that can erode a wife’s taste