Letters of Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

• Editore: Dover Publications
• Anno: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780486143170
• Argomento: Letteratura
• Categoria: Letteratura epistolare

Only five of Emily Dickinson's poems were published while she lived; today, approximately 1,500 are in print. Dickinson's poetry reflects the power of her contemplative gifts, and her deep sensitivity courses through her correspondence as well. Lovingly compiled by a close friend, this first collection of Dickinson's letters originally appeared in 1894, only eight years after the poet's death. Although she grew reclusive in her later years and seldom saw her many friends, she thought of them often and affectionately, as her missives attest. The small cast of daily characters in Dickinson's little world takes on vivid life in the letters, and her famous wit sparkles from every page.

ix

TO Mr. and Mrs. J. L. Jenkins, Mrs. Hanson Read, Mrs. W. A. Stearns, Mrs. Edward Tuckerman, Mrs. J. S. Cooper, Mrs. A. B. H. Davis, Mrs. H. F. Hills, Mrs. Jameson, Mr. F. F. Emerson, Maggie Maher, Mr. and Mrs. George Montague, Mrs. W. F. Stearns, Mr. J. K. Chickering, Mrs. Joseph Sweetser, Mr. Thomas, Niles, Mrs. Carmichael, Dr. and Mrs. Thomas P. Field, Mr. Theodore Holland, “H. H.,” Miss Eugenia Hall, Mrs. E. P. Crowell, and Mrs. J. C. Greenough

THE CHARACTERISTIC notes in this chapter were, with few exceptions, written to friends in Amherst, accompanying flowers or other dainties, or acknowledging those sent to herself,—not infrequently a sentence of consolation for some pain, or a few words of cheering appreciation for a new happiness.

The first may be dated as early as 1872; but the largest number are, undoubtedly, to be assigned to the last six or seven years of Emily Dickinson’s life.

After her father’s death, her retirement from ordinary forms of human intercourse became almost complete; and these notes were the sole link still binding her to the world,—and to only such part of the world as might be represented by those for whom she cared.

Emily’s prose style had developed its incisiveness,—like her own thought, it went straight to the essence of things; and while still dressed in language sufficiently to pass in conventional places, it had gradually become divested of everything superfluous.

While the meaning of certain phrases has sometimes puzzled those who received the notes, there is invariably an original, sparkling interpretation for every sentence, clear to any soul possessing even slight accord with hers. Because frequently couched in the form of apparently mysterious oracles, the meaning is sometimes looked for too deeply,—often it is singularly obvious. The remarkable character of these notes seems to have increased as she lived farther and farther away from the years when she had seen and conversed with her friends; and her life was full of thoughts and occupation during these introspective days. It is impossible to conceive that any sense of personal isolation, or real loneliness of spirit, because of the absence of humanity from her daily life, could have oppressed a nature so richly endowed.

Most of us would require some sudden blow, some fierce crisis, to produce such a result,—a hidden and unusual life like hers. And we love to believe striking and theatrical things of our neighbors; it panders to that romantic element latent in the plainest. But Emily Dickinson’s method of living was so simple and natural an outcome of her increasingly shy nature, a development so perfectly in the line of her whole constitution that no far-away and dramatic explanation of her quiet life is necessary to those who are capable of apprehending her.

That sentence alone would reveal the key wherein she wrote with regret for her long-time maid Margaret: “I winced at her loss, for I am in the habit of her, and even a new rolling-pin has an embarrassing element.”

Emerson somewhere, says, “Now and then a man exquisitely made can live alone”; and Lord Bacon puts the thought with even greater force and directness,—“Whosoever is delighted in Solitude is either a Wilde Beast or a God.”

To some natures, introspection is a necessity for expression. “Why should I feel lonely?” exclaimed Thoreau, in his temporary isolation at Walden, “Is not our planet in the Milky Way?” He was, indeed, “no more lonely than the North Star,” nor, I believe, was Emily Dickinson, although congenial companionship had, in a sense, been very dear to her.

She has herself written:—

Never for society
He shall seek in vain
Who his own acquaintance
Cultivates; of men
Wiser men may weary,
But the man within
Never knew satiety,—
Better entertain
Than could Border Ballad,
Or Biscayan Hymn;
Neither introduction
Need you—unto him.

Georg Ebers once wrote: “Sheep and geese become restless when separated from the flock; the eagle and lion seek isolation,”—a picturesque and perhaps not less strong presentation of a nearly identical thought.

But although invisible for years, even to life-long friends, Emily never denied herself to children. To them she was always accessible, always delightful, and in their eyes a sort of fairy guardian. Stories are yet told of her roguishly lowering baskets of “goodies” out of her window by a string to little ones waiting below. Mr. MacGregor Jenkins, in a sketch of his recollections of Emily Dickinson,¹³ has shown this gracious and womanly side of her nature in a very charming way, quoting a number of her notes to himself and his sister, two members of a quartette of children admitted to her intimacy. Many of Emily Dickinson’s daintiest verses are for children,—among them The Sleeping Flowers and Out of the Morning.

The notes written during their childhood to Mr. Jenkins and his sister follow, with others to their father and mother:—

1872?

HAPPY “DID” AND MAC,—We can offer you nothing so charming as your own hearts, which we would seek to possess, had we the requisite wiles.

DEAR BOYS,—Please never grow up, which is “far better.” Please never “improve”—you are perfect now.

EMILY

LITTLE WOMEN,—Which shall it be, geraniums or tulips?

The butterfly upon the sky, who doesn’t know its name,

And hasn’t any tax to pay, and hasn’t any home,

Is just as high as you and I, and higher, ...