The last afternoon that my father lived, though with no premonition, I preferred to be with him, and invented an absence for mother, Vinnie [her sister] being asleep. He seemed peculiarly pleased, as I oftenest stayed with myself; and remarked, as the afternoon withdrew, he “would like it to not end.”His pleasure almost embarrassed me, and my brother coming, I suggested they walk. Next morning I woke him for the train, and saw him no more.His heart was pure and terrible, and I think no other like it exists.I am glad there is immortality, but would have tested it myself, before entrusting him. Mr. Bowles was with us. With that exception, I saw none. I have wished for you, since my father died, and had you an hour unengrossed, it would be almost priceless. Thank you for each kindness....
The last afternoon that my father lived, though with no premonition, I preferred to be with him, and invented an absence for mother, Vinnie [her sister] being asleep. He seemed peculiarly pleased, as I oftenest stayed with myself; and remarked, as the afternoon withdrew, he “would like it to not end.”
His pleasure almost embarrassed me, and my brother coming, I suggested they walk. Next morning I woke him for the train, and saw him no more.
His heart was pure and terrible, and I think no other like it exists.
I am glad there is immortality, but would have tested it myself, before entrusting him. Mr. Bowles was with us. With that exception, I saw none. I have wished for you, since my father died, and had you an hour unengrossed, it would be almost priceless. Thank you for each kindness....
Later she wrote:—
When I think of my father’s lonely life and lonelier death, there is this redress—Take all away;The only thing worth larcenyIs left—the immortality.My earliest friend wrote me the week before hedied, “If I live, I will go to Amherst; if I die, I certainly will.”Is your house deeper off?Your Scholar.
When I think of my father’s lonely life and lonelier death, there is this redress—
Take all away;The only thing worth larcenyIs left—the immortality.
Take all away;The only thing worth larcenyIs left—the immortality.
Take all away;The only thing worth larcenyIs left—the immortality.
Take all away;
The only thing worth larceny
Is left—the immortality.
My earliest friend wrote me the week before hedied, “If I live, I will go to Amherst; if I die, I certainly will.”
Is your house deeper off?
Your Scholar.
A year afterwards came this:—
Dear Friend,—Mother was paralyzed Tuesday, a year from the evening father died. I thought perhaps you would care.Your Scholar.
Dear Friend,—Mother was paralyzed Tuesday, a year from the evening father died. I thought perhaps you would care.
Your Scholar.
With this came the following verse, having a curious seventeenth-century flavor:—
“A death-blow is a life-blow to some,Who, till they died, did not alive become;Who, had they lived, had died, but whenThey died, vitality begun.”
“A death-blow is a life-blow to some,Who, till they died, did not alive become;Who, had they lived, had died, but whenThey died, vitality begun.”
“A death-blow is a life-blow to some,Who, till they died, did not alive become;Who, had they lived, had died, but whenThey died, vitality begun.”
“A death-blow is a life-blow to some,Who, till they died, did not alive become;Who, had they lived, had died, but whenThey died, vitality begun.”
“A death-blow is a life-blow to some,
Who, till they died, did not alive become;
Who, had they lived, had died, but when
They died, vitality begun.”
And later came this kindred memorial of one of the oldest and most faithful friends of the family, Mr. Samuel Bowles, of the Springfield “Republican”:—
Dear Friend,—I felt it shelter to speak to you.My brother and sister are with Mr. Bowles, who is buried this afternoon.The last song that I heard—that was, since the birds—was “He leadeth me, he leadeth me; yea, though I walk”—then the voices stooped, the arch was so low.
Dear Friend,—I felt it shelter to speak to you.
My brother and sister are with Mr. Bowles, who is buried this afternoon.
The last song that I heard—that was, since the birds—was “He leadeth me, he leadeth me; yea, though I walk”—then the voices stooped, the arch was so low.
After this added bereavement the inward life of the diminished household became only moreconcentrated, and the world was held farther and farther away. Yet to this period belongs the following letter, written about 1880, which has more of what is commonly called the objective or external quality than any she ever wrote me; and shows how close might have been her observation and her sympathy, had her rare qualities taken a somewhat different channel:—
Dear Friend,—I was touchingly reminded of [a child who had died] this morning by an Indian woman with gay baskets and a dazzling baby, at the kitchen door. Her little boy “once died,” she said, death to her dispelling him. I asked her what the baby liked, and she said “to step.” The prairie before the door was gay with flowers of hay, and I led her in. She argued with the birds, she leaned on clover walls and they fell, and dropped her. With jargon sweeter than a bell, she grappled buttercups, and they sank together, the buttercups the heaviest. What sweetest use of days! ’Twas noting some such scene made Vaughan humbly say,—“My days that are at best but dim and hoary.”I think it was Vaughan....
Dear Friend,—I was touchingly reminded of [a child who had died] this morning by an Indian woman with gay baskets and a dazzling baby, at the kitchen door. Her little boy “once died,” she said, death to her dispelling him. I asked her what the baby liked, and she said “to step.” The prairie before the door was gay with flowers of hay, and I led her in. She argued with the birds, she leaned on clover walls and they fell, and dropped her. With jargon sweeter than a bell, she grappled buttercups, and they sank together, the buttercups the heaviest. What sweetest use of days! ’Twas noting some such scene made Vaughan humbly say,—
“My days that are at best but dim and hoary.”
“My days that are at best but dim and hoary.”
“My days that are at best but dim and hoary.”
“My days that are at best but dim and hoary.”
I think it was Vaughan....
And these few fragmentary memorials—closing, like every human biography, with funerals, yet with such as were to Emily Dickinson only the stately introduction to ahigher life—may well end with her description of the death of the very summer she so loved.
“As imperceptibly as griefThe summer lapsed away,Too imperceptible at lastTo feel like perfidy.“A quietness distilled,As twilight long begun,Or Nature spending with herselfSequestered afternoon.“The dusk drew earlier in,The morning foreign shone,A courteous yet harrowing graceAs guest that would be gone.“And thus without a wingOr service of a keelOur summer made her light escapeInto the Beautiful.”
“As imperceptibly as griefThe summer lapsed away,Too imperceptible at lastTo feel like perfidy.“A quietness distilled,As twilight long begun,Or Nature spending with herselfSequestered afternoon.“The dusk drew earlier in,The morning foreign shone,A courteous yet harrowing graceAs guest that would be gone.“And thus without a wingOr service of a keelOur summer made her light escapeInto the Beautiful.”
“As imperceptibly as griefThe summer lapsed away,Too imperceptible at lastTo feel like perfidy.“A quietness distilled,As twilight long begun,Or Nature spending with herselfSequestered afternoon.“The dusk drew earlier in,The morning foreign shone,A courteous yet harrowing graceAs guest that would be gone.“And thus without a wingOr service of a keelOur summer made her light escapeInto the Beautiful.”
“As imperceptibly as griefThe summer lapsed away,Too imperceptible at lastTo feel like perfidy.
“As imperceptibly as grief
The summer lapsed away,
Too imperceptible at last
To feel like perfidy.
“A quietness distilled,As twilight long begun,Or Nature spending with herselfSequestered afternoon.
“A quietness distilled,
As twilight long begun,
Or Nature spending with herself
Sequestered afternoon.
“The dusk drew earlier in,The morning foreign shone,A courteous yet harrowing graceAs guest that would be gone.
“The dusk drew earlier in,
The morning foreign shone,
A courteous yet harrowing grace
As guest that would be gone.
“And thus without a wingOr service of a keelOur summer made her light escapeInto the Beautiful.”
“And thus without a wing
Or service of a keel
Our summer made her light escape
Into the Beautiful.”