2020.06.23 揭示艾米莉-狄金森另一面的邂逅

shiyi18

The Encounter That Revealed a Different Side of Emily Dickinson
After eight years of letter writing, the author Thomas Wentworth Higginson finally met the reclusive poet face-to-face.

By Martha Ackmann

Universal History Archive / Mondadori Portfolio / Getty / The Atlantic
JUNE 23, 2020
SHARE
“My dear young gentleman or young lady,” the essay in the April 1862 issue of The Atlantic began. Thomas Wentworth Higginson went on in “Letter to a Young Contributor” to offer advice to would-be writers seeking to publish. Use black ink and quality paper, and avoid sloppy dashes. That beginning line, with its two-word invitation to ladies, may have caught the eye of a 31-year-old woman living in Amherst, Massachusetts—a woman who did not entirely agree about the dashes. Emily Dickinson read the essay and then took the most unprecedented step of her life. She wrote Higginson—a stranger to her—directly and sent four poems, along with a note. “Mr Higginson,” she wrote. “Are you too deeply occupied to say if my verse is alive?” Dickinson’s letter set into motion a correspondence with Higginson that lasted almost a quarter of a century. Eight years after writing her initial letter, on August 16, 1870, Dickinson and Higginson finally met face-to-face.


Higginson’s visit would be no ordinary call for Dickinson—not that she received many guests. Her great literary productivity of the Civil War years had tapered off. She had stopped collecting her poems in stitched booklets—fascicles—and new poems remained unbound on loose sheets. Nearly 40 years old, she was more patient, less insistent, and more forgiving of perceived slights from those close to her. Although others around her were busy with their own lives, she did not feel as forsaken as she once had. Dickinson’s sense of self made the difference. She knew who she was. She no longer was hoping to make her family proud. The hundreds of poems in fascicles and on sheets hidden away in her room bore witness to what she already had accomplished. In her letters, Higgison had noticed, she no longer signed her name on a card slipped inside the envelope—a game played as much for effect as reticence. Largely gone, too, were the callow signatures of “Your Gnome” and “Your Scholar.” Now she signed her name with a single word: “Dickinson.” That is who she had become.

Read: Thomas Wentworth Higginson’s ‘Letter to a Young Contributor’

Higginson was excited and nervous about paying calls. As a boy, he was shy around women outside his family. To mitigate awkwardness, he would write down conversation topics. If tongue-tied, he would pull the paper from his pocket and select a matter to discuss. But Higginson had plenty of questions for Dickinson, chief among them inquiries about her seclusion. At times, her talent made him reluctant to answer her letters, aware he never could match her artfulness. He was clumsy with words, he told her, and often missed the fine edge of her thought. But he forced himself to put aside timidity and continued to write, knowing what he could not offer in useful criticism he might be able to offer in dependability, friendship, and generosity. Higginson thought that she needed someone—a person who admired her, even if he did not always understand what she was saying. “Sometimes I take out your letters & verses, dear friend,” he wrote, “and when I feel their strange power, it is not strange that I find it hard to write & that long months pass. I have the greatest desire to see you, always feeling that perhaps if I could once take you by the hand I might be something to you; but till then you only enshroud yourself in this fiery mist & I cannot reach you, but only rejoice in the rare sparkles of light.”


Higginson was exhausted as he prepared to meet Dickinson in her Amherst home. He had spent the past year writing two books. The Atlantic had serialized his first novel, Malbone: An Oldport Romance, and then there was an upcoming book based on his Civil War diary. Living in Newport, Rhode Island, had also lost its allure. He now found society life superficial and draining. Perhaps Dickinson knew better after all how to preserve the energy needed for creativity. The hotel she had suggested that he stay at was convenient: four stories tall, in the center of town, with a dining room, as well as a livery stable around the corner. It was not as hot as it had been that summer, but it was dry. Many town wells had dried up, and the Connecticut River was low, with brown banks stretching from shore. The town common looked terrible—scraggly and barren.

RECOMMENDED READING

The Exquisite Pain of Reading in Quarantine
CONNOR GOODWIN
A paper boat on water
Poetry Is Everywhere
MEGAN GARBER

SPONSOR CONTENT
An HBO horror-comedy limited series tackles motherhood (40c)
HBO
Calling card in hard, Higginson set out walking toward the Dickinson Homestead in long, loping strides. He followed the road down a gentle slope until it leveled off near a copse of trees and the start of a wooden fence. The fence marked the beginning of the Dickinson property. First the Evergreens, the stately home of the poet’s brother and sister-in-law, then the Homestead, the Dickinson-family manse. The walkway rose again as it approached the front steps—a not-so-inconsequential reminder of the family’s prominence. Higginson took in the sight so he could tell his wife everything. A large house. Like a country lawyer’s. Brick. Flower and vegetable gardens to the east and an apple orchard. Pears too. From where he stood, he could see the train depot and the distant line of the Pelham hills. He knocked, presented his card, and was ushered into a dark parlor on the left. Then he waited.

Read: Emily Dickinson’s letters

First he heard her. From upstairs on the second floor came the sound of quick, light steps—footsteps that sounded like a child’s. Then she entered. A plain woman with two bands of reddish hair, not particularly good-looking, wearing a white piqué dress. The white stunned him. It was exquisite. A blue worsted shawl covered her shoulders. She seemed fearful to him, breathless at first, and extended her hand—not to shake, but to offer something. “These are my introduction,” she said, handing him two daylilies. “Forgive me if I am frightened; I never see strangers & hardly know what I say.” Then Dickinson looked at him. A tall man in his mid-40s with a joyful face, she thought. Dark-haired, whiskered, graceful, he looked kind. Higginson did not reach into his pocket to fish out a topic for conversation. He did not need to.

Once they sat, Dickinson began talking and she did not stop. When she experienced eye problems several years before, she told him, “it was a comfort to think that there were so few real books that I could easily find some one to read me all of them.” She wondered how people got through their days without thinking. “How do most people live without any thoughts,” she said. “There are many people in the world (you must have noticed them in the street) How do they live. How do they get strength to put on their clothes in the morning.” She was full of aphorisms, sentences that seemed to have been crafted earlier in her mind and that she wanted to share. “Women talk: men are silent: that is why I dread women; Truth is such a rare thing it is delightful to tell it; Is it oblivion or absorption when things pass from our minds?”

At times, Dickinson seemed self-conscious and asked Higginson to jump in. But every time he tried, she was off again, and words tumbled out, almost uncontrollably. He tried to recall every phrase, every thought, even her tone, humor, and asides. “My father only reads on Sunday—he reads lonely & rigorous books,” she said. Once, she recalled, her brother, Austin, brought home a novel that they knew their father would not condone. Austin hid it under the piano cover for Dickinson to find. When she was young, she said, and read her first real book, she was in ecstasy. “This then is a book!” she had exclaimed. “And are there more of them!” She boasted about her cooking and said she made all the bread for the family. Puddings too. “People must have puddings,” she said. The way she said it—so dreamy and abstracted—sounded to Higginson as though she were talking about comets.

Read: Emily Dickinson’s mysterious ‘You’

Dickinson said her life had not been constrained or dreary in any way. “I find ecstasy in living,” she explained. The “mere sense of living is joy enough.” When at last the opportunity arose, Higginson posed the question he most wanted to ask: Did you ever want a job, have a desire to travel or see people? The question unleashed a forceful reply. “I never thought of conceiving that I could ever have the slightest approach to such a want in all future time.” Then she loaded on more. “I feel that I have not expressed myself strongly enough.” Dickinson reserved her most striking statement for what poetry meant to her, or, rather, how it made her feel. “If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me I know that is poetry,” she said. “If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only way I know it. Is there any other way.” Dickinson was remarkable. Brilliant. Candid. Deliberate. Mystifying. After eight years of waiting, Higginson was finally sitting across from Emily Dickinson of Amherst, and all he wanted to do was listen.

It struck Higginson that the time he spent with Dickinson that day had been an act of self-definition for her: Her torrent of words was like a personal and literary manifesto. She reminded him of Bronson Alcott, Louisa May’s father—although Dickinson was not pompous or overbearing. Before he rose to leave, Dickinson placed a photograph in his hand. It was an image of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s grave, a memento a friend had brought back from Europe and presented to her a few days before. He accepted the gift reluctantly, knowing that it probably meant more to her than it would to him. Like with the daylilies from earlier, he knew the photograph was Dickinson’s way of saying thank you. “Gratitude is the only secret that cannot reveal itself,” she told him. Higginson said he hoped to see her again sometime, and she abruptly interrupted him. “Say in a long time,” she corrected, “that will be nearer. Some time is nothing.”

With a hundred thoughts whirling in his head, Higginson retraced his steps back to the hotel. He needed to go to bed. But before turning in, he compiled notes, trying to recall it all, and made a quick entry in his diary. Meeting Emily Dickinson quite equaled my expectation, he wrote. It had been a momentous day, one he would never forget. As he turned down the lamp, he hoped he would be able to calm his mind and get to sleep. He wanted to wake up early before catching the train to Vermont.

For Dickinson, Higginson’s visit felt unreal, as if a phantom had entered the family parlor and transformed it. “Contained in this short Life / Are magical extents,” she wrote. She felt elated, emboldened, and slightly off-kilter. Hearing herself talk so much, she said, made her feel as though the words rushing out were not sentences at all, but events. After the visit, Dickinson reached for the family Shakespeare and turned to Macbeth. “Now a wood / Comes toward Dunsinane,” she read, reliving how mystical her friend’s visit had been.

Yet as exhilarated as she felt, it was gratitude that lingered. When she thought about all Higginson had done for her—answering that first letter, writing her from the battlefront when he was wounded, continuing to write even when he felt that his life had lost its purpose, urging her to take time to perfect her art—she felt herself nearly speechless. Higginson’s generosity “disables my Lips,” she said, and magic, “as it electrifies, also makes decrepit.” It was not only that he had read her poems—although she was thankful for that. It was that he had been constant. When she sought words to thank him, she reached not for metaphors from nature or images of planets and dreams that she had been working with. She went deeper. She chose anatomy. “The Vein cannot thank the Artery,” she told him, “but her solemn indebtedness to him, even the stolidest admit.” Over the next months, the thought of seeing him again played in her mind with eerie repetition. It “opens and shuts,” she said “like the eye of the Wax Doll.” She hoped he would return to Amherst someday or in “a long time”—perhaps that would be nearer.

The New York Times
Support the journalists who seek the truth.
Benefit from expert reporting with this special offer from The Times.
SPONSORED BY THE NEW YORK TIMES
See More

Jostling along on the tracks to Vermont, miles from Amherst, Higginson noted down that Dickinson had dazzled him, but had also made him uncomfortable. It took every ounce of his being to meet her level of intellectual intensity. “I never was with any one who drained my nerve power so much,” he admitted. “Without touching her, she drew from me. I am glad not to live near her.”

Higginson never got around to asking Dickinson if she was interested in preparing a book of poetry. Perhaps he couldn’t find the nerve, feeling that if he pressed too hard, she would withdraw, vanishing like those sparkles of light he always associated with her. But Higginson knew there was a time to sow and a time to reap. For Emily Dickinson, the harvest was yet to come.

This piece is adapted from These Fevered Days: Ten Pivotal Moments in the Making of Emily Dickinson, published in February by Norton.

Martha Ackmann is a journalist and an author. Her books include The Mercury 13: The True Story of Thirteen Women and the Dream of Space Flight and These Fevered Days: Ten Pivotal Moments in the Making of Emily Dickinson.



揭示艾米莉-狄金森另一面的邂逅
经过八年的书信往来，作者托马斯-温特沃斯-希金森终于与这位隐居的诗人面对面交流。

作者：玛莎-阿克曼

环球历史档案馆 / Mondadori Portfolio / Getty / The Atlantic
2020年6月23日

"我亲爱的年轻绅士或年轻女士，"1862年4月号的《大西洋》杂志上的文章开始。托马斯-温特沃斯-希金森在 "致一位年轻撰稿人的信 "中继续为寻求出版的未来作家提供建议。使用黑色墨水和优质纸张，并避免草率的破折号。这句开头的话，以及对女士们的两个字的邀请，可能引起了一位居住在马萨诸塞州阿默斯特的31岁妇女的注意--她并不完全同意破折号。艾米莉-狄金森读了这篇文章，然后采取了她一生中最史无前例的步骤。她直接给希金森--一个对她来说很陌生的人--写信，寄去了四首诗，并附上一张纸条。"希金森先生，"她写道。"你是不是太忙了，不能说我的诗是否还活着？" 迪金森的这封信开启了她与希金森持续了近四分之一世纪的通信。在她写下第一封信的8年后，1870年8月16日，迪金森和希金森终于面对面地见面了。


希金森的来访对迪金森来说不是一次普通的拜访--并不是说她接待了很多客人。她在内战时期的巨大文学生产力已经减弱了。她已经不再把她的诗收集在缝制的小册子里--小册子--而新诗仍然没有装订在散页上。近40岁的她更有耐心，不那么执着，对身边人的轻视也更宽容了。尽管她周围的人都在忙于自己的生活，但她并没有像以前那样感到被抛弃。迪金森的自我意识使她与众不同。她知道自己是谁。她不再希望让她的家人感到骄傲。藏在她房间里的成百上千的诗集和诗页见证了她已经取得的成就。希吉森注意到，在她的信件中，她不再在信封内的卡片上签上自己的名字--这种游戏既是为了效果，也是为了缄默。"您的侏儒 "和 "您的学者 "这些稚嫩的签名也大体上消失了。现在她在自己的名字上只签了一个字："迪金森"。这就是她所成为的人。

阅读。托马斯-温特沃斯-希金森的 "致一位年轻撰稿人的信

希金森对付费电话感到兴奋和紧张。作为一个男孩，他在家庭以外的女性面前很害羞。为了缓解尴尬，他会写下谈话话题。如果舌头打结，他会从口袋里掏出纸，选择一个问题来讨论。但希金森有很多问题要问迪金森，其中最主要的问题是关于她的隐居。有时，她的才华使他不愿意回答她的信，因为他知道自己永远无法与她的艺术性相提并论。他告诉她，他用词笨拙，经常错过她思想的精髓。但他强迫自己抛开胆怯，继续写信，因为他知道，他不能提供的有用的批评，也许可以提供可靠、友谊和慷慨的东西。希金森认为，她需要一些人--一个欣赏她的人，即使他并不总是理解她所说的内容。"亲爱的朋友，有时我拿出你的信和诗句，"他写道，"当我感受到它们的奇怪力量时，我发现很难写，而且漫长的几个月过去了，这并不奇怪。我最想见到你，总觉得如果我能够牵着你的手，我可能会对你有所帮助；但在此之前，你只是把自己笼罩在这片火热的迷雾中，我无法接触到你，只能为难得的闪光感到高兴。"


当希金森准备在迪金森的阿默斯特家中与她见面时，他已经筋疲力尽。他在过去的一年里写了两本书。大西洋报》连载了他的第一部小说《马尔邦》。一个奥德波特的浪漫故事，然后还有一本即将出版的基于他的内战日记的书。在罗德岛新港的生活也失去了吸引力。他现在发现，社会生活是肤浅的，而且令人疲惫。也许迪金森更了解如何保存创作所需的能量。她建议他住的酒店很方便：四层楼高，位于市中心，有一个餐厅，拐角处还有一个马厩。那年夏天，天气没有那么热，但很干燥。许多镇上的水井已经干涸，康涅狄格河的水位很低，褐色的河岸从岸边延伸。镇上的公共场所看起来很糟糕--杂乱无章，一片荒芜。

推荐阅读

隔离区内阅读的精致之痛
康纳-古德温
水中的纸船
诗歌无处不在
MEGAN GARBER

赞助内容
HBO的一部恐怖喜剧限定剧集解决了母性问题（40c）。
HBO
希金森拿着电话卡，迈着长长的步子，向迪金森庄园走去。他沿着道路走下一个缓坡，直到它在一片树丛和一个木栅栏的起点附近变平。栅栏标志着迪金森庄园的开始。首先是长青树，这是诗人的哥哥和嫂子的庄严的家，然后是家园，迪金森家族的宅邸。当走到前面的台阶时，人行道又升高了--这并不重要，它提醒着我们这个家族的显赫地位。希金森把这一景象看在眼里，这样他就可以把一切都告诉他的妻子。一座大房子。像一个乡村律师的。砖砌的。东边是花圃和菜园，还有一个苹果园。还有梨子。从他站的地方，他可以看到火车站和远处的佩勒姆山脉。他敲了敲门，出示了他的名片，然后被领进了左边的一间黑暗的客厅。然后他等待着。

阅读。艾米莉-狄金森的信件

首先他听到了她的声音。从楼上的二楼传来了快速、轻盈的脚步声--听起来像是孩子的脚步声。然后她进来了。一个朴素的女人，有两道微红的头发，长得不是特别好看，穿着白色的匹格裙。那白色让他目瞪口呆。它很精致。一条蓝色精纺披肩盖住了她的肩膀。她对他来说似乎很害怕，一开始就喘不过气来，她伸出手来，不是为了握手，而是为了提供一些东西。"这是我的介绍，"她说，递给他两朵萱草。"请原谅我的惊恐；我从未见过陌生人，几乎不知道自己说了什么。" 然后迪金森看了看他。她想，一个40多岁的高个子男人，有一张快乐的脸。深色头发，留着胡须，风度翩翩，他看起来很亲切。希金森没有伸手到口袋里去捞一个谈话的话题。他不需要这样做。

他们一坐下，迪金森就开始说话，她没有停下来。几年前，当她的眼睛出现问题时，她告诉他，"想到真正的书很少，我可以很容易地找到一些人给我读所有的书，这是一种安慰。" 她想知道人们是如何在不思考的情况下度过他们的日子的。"大多数人是如何在没有任何思想的情况下生活的，"她说。"世界上有很多人（你一定注意到他们在街上），他们是如何生活的。他们是如何获得力量在早晨穿上衣服的。" 她充满了警句，这些句子似乎是早先在她脑海中精心设计的，她想与大家分享。"女人说话：男人沉默：这就是我害怕女人的原因；真理是如此稀少的东西，讲述它是令人高兴的；当事情从我们的头脑中消失时，是遗忘还是吸收？"

有时，迪金森似乎很自觉，要求希金森跳进去。但每当他尝试时，她又不在状态，话语翻滚而出，几乎不受控制。他试图回忆每一句话、每一个想法，甚至她的语气、幽默和旁白。"她说："我父亲只在星期天读书，他读的是孤独而严谨的书。她回忆说，有一次，她的弟弟奥斯汀带回家一本小说，他们知道他们的父亲不会宽恕。奥斯汀把它藏在钢琴盖下面，让迪金森找到。她说，当她年轻时，读到她的第一本真正的书时，她欣喜若狂。"这就是一本书！"她惊叹道。"还有没有更多的书！" 她夸耀自己的厨艺，说她为家里做了所有的面包。布丁也是。"人们必须吃布丁，"她说。她说这话的方式--如此梦幻和抽象--在希金森听来就像她在谈论彗星一样。

阅读。艾米莉-狄金森的神秘 "你

狄金森说，她的生活没有受到任何约束或沉闷的影响。她解释说："我在生活中找到了狂喜，"她说。她解释说，"仅仅是生活的感觉就足够快乐了"。当机会终于出现时，希金森提出了他最想问的问题。你是否曾经想要一份工作，有旅行或见人的愿望？这个问题释放了一个有力的回答。"我从来没有想过，在未来的所有时间里，我可能会有丝毫接近这种愿望的想法。" 然后她又说了很多。"我觉得我的表达还不够强烈"。迪金森保留了她最引人注目的声明，即诗歌对她意味着什么，或者说，诗歌让她有什么感觉。"她说："如果我读了一本书，它使我全身冰冷，没有火可以温暖我，我知道那就是诗歌。"如果我的身体感觉就像我的头顶被摘掉一样，我知道那是诗歌。这些是我知道它的唯一方式。还有其他方法吗。" 迪金森很了不起。聪明。坦率。慎重。神秘的。经过八年的等待，希金森终于坐在阿默斯特的艾米莉-迪金森对面，而他想做的就是倾听。

希金森突然意识到，那天他与迪金森相处的时间对她来说是一种自我定义的行为。她滔滔不绝的话语就像一份个人和文学的宣言。她让他想起了路易莎-梅的父亲布朗森-奥尔科特--尽管迪金森并不浮夸，也不盛气凌人。在他起身离开之前，迪金森把一张照片放在他手里。那是一张伊丽莎白-巴雷特-勃朗宁坟墓的照片，是一位朋友从欧洲带回来的纪念品，几天前送给了她。他不情愿地接受了这份礼物，知道它对她来说可能比对他更有意义。就像之前的萱草花一样，他知道这张照片是迪金森说谢谢的方式。她告诉他："感恩是唯一不能透露的秘密"。希金森说他希望有机会再见到她，而她突然打断了他。"说在很长时间内，"她纠正说，"那会比较近。一些时间算不了什么。"

希金森脑子里有一百个念头在打转，他重新回到了旅馆。他需要去睡觉了。但在睡前，他整理了笔记，试图回忆这一切，并在日记中快速记录。他写道："与艾米莉-狄金森的会面与我的期望相当吻合。这是一个重要的日子，他永远不会忘记。当他关上灯时，他希望自己能够平静下来，进入睡眠状态。他想在赶往佛蒙特州的火车之前早些醒来。

对迪金森来说，希金森的来访让他感到不真实，仿佛一个幽灵进入了家庭客厅并改变了它。她写道："在这短暂的生命中/包含着神奇的外延"。她感到欣喜若狂，有恃无恐，还有点不正常。她说，听到自己说了这么多话，让她觉得冲出来的话语似乎根本不是句子，而是事件。访问结束后，迪金森拿起家庭莎士比亚的书，翻开了《麦克白》。"现在，一片树林/向邓西嫩走来，"她读道，重温她朋友的访问是多么的神秘。

然而，尽管她感到振奋，但感激之情却挥之不去。当她想到希金森为她所做的一切--回复第一封信，当他受伤时从前线给她写信，即使他觉得自己的生活已经失去了意义，仍然继续写信，敦促她花时间来完善她的艺术--她感到自己几乎无话可说。希金森的慷慨 "使我的嘴唇失灵，"她说，而魔法 "在通电的同时，也使人衰弱"。这不仅是因为他读过她的诗--尽管她对此表示感谢。更重要的是，他一直在坚持。当她寻求感谢他的话语时，她没有从自然界或她一直在工作的行星和梦想的图像中找到隐喻。她走得更深。她选择了解剖学。"静脉不能感谢动脉，"她告诉他，"但她对他的庄严亏欠，即使是最呆板的人也承认。" 在接下来的几个月里，再次见到他的想法在她的脑海中阴森地重复着。它 "开了又关"，她说 "就像蜡像的眼睛"。她希望他有一天会回到阿默斯特，或者在 "很长一段时间内"--也许那会更近。

纽约时报
支持那些寻求真相的记者们。
通过《纽约时报》的这一特别优惠，受益于专家的报道。
由《纽约时报》赞助
查看更多

在通往佛蒙特州的铁轨上，希金森注意到，迪金森让他眼花缭乱，但也让他感到不舒服。他花了所有的精力来满足她的智力强度水平。他承认："我从来没有和任何一个人在一起时如此耗费我的神经力量，"他说。"没有接触过她，她就从我身上抽走了。我很高兴没有住在她附近。"

希金森从未问过迪金森，她是否有兴趣编写一本诗集。也许他找不到勇气，觉得如果他逼得太紧，她就会退缩，像那些他总是和她联系在一起的闪光点一样消失。但希金森知道，播种和收割都是有时间的。对艾米莉-狄金森来说，收获还没有到来。

这篇文章改编自《狂热的日子》。艾米莉-狄金森创作中的十个关键时刻》，由诺顿出版社于2月出版。

玛莎-阿克曼是一名记者和作家。她的书包括《水星13号：13位女性与太空飞行梦想的真实故事》和《这些狂热的日子》。艾米莉-狄金森创作中的十个关键时刻》。