It would never be Common—more—I said
Difference—had begun—
Many a bitterness—had been—
But that old sort—was done—
Or—if it sometime—showed—-as ’twill—
Upon the Downiest—morn—
Such bliss—had I—for all the years—
‘Twould give an Easier—pain—
I’d so much joy—I told it—Red
Upon my simple Cheek—
I felt it publish—in my eye—
‘Twas needless—any speak—
I walked—as wings—my body bore—
The feet—I former used—
Unnecessary—now to me—
As boots—would be—to Birds
I put my pleasure all abroad—
I dealt a word of Gold
To every Creature—that I met—
And Dowered—all the World—
When—suddenly—my Riches shrank—
A Goblin—drank my Dew—
My Palaces—dropped tenantless—
Myself—was beggared—too—
I clutched at sounds—
I groped at shapes—
I touched the tops of Films—
I felt the Wilderness roll back—
Along my Golden lines—
The Sackcloth—hangs upon the nail—
The Frock I used to wear—
But where my moment of Brocade—
My—drop—of India?
[FR388/J430]
And we return to Dickinson’s poetic genius and her leaps of association with It would never be Common more—a request from Gabrielle Deakin. As is often Dickinson’s habit, she is less interested in communicating what she’s writing about that how she feels. One might say that the locus of Dickinson’s poetry is less the world than her emotional response to the world. There is, big maybe, a clue as to what she’s writing about. We’ll get to that. Let’s go stanza by stanza.
It would never be Common—more—I said
Difference—had begun—
Many a bitterness—had been—
But that old sort—was done—
We don’t know what Dickinson is referring to by “It”, but let’s call it her life—and by extension, perhaps, her reputation. Maybe she’s referring to a new relationship or friendship. Maybe she’s referring to a cookie recipe that’s finally worked. All that she tells us is that something has changed — “Difference—had begun—” From this day forth, she was done with “Many a bitterness”.
Or—if it sometime—showed—-as ’twill—
Upon the Downiest—morn—
Such bliss—had I—for all the years—
‘Twould give an Easier—pain—
Bliss! Her second stanza somewhat qualifies her first stanza with the acknowledgement that, Fine, if that old bitterness shows up again “as ’twill’, it’s bite will be “an Easier—pain” now that I have the bliss of what I want! And we still don’t know what that is or even what the old ‘bitterness’ was. Is it important to know? Maybe not. Maybe the point of the poem isn’t what was gained or loss. What’s important is the experience itself. In other words, Dickinson doesn’t want you to fix the damned problem. She wants you to stop talking, to commiserate, and to hear her. Sound familiar? She just wants to vent.
I’d so much joy—I told it—Red
Upon my simple Cheek—
I felt it publish—in my eye—
‘Twas needless—any speak—
She experienced “so much joy” that her complexion, the blush/red of her check, published/revealed it to the world. You could see it in her eye. Expressing her joy was needless. Anyone who saw her would know that a “Difference—had begun”. One could be forgiven for thinking that her joy might have been post-coital—what with her twinkling eye and rouged cheeks—but this is Emily Dickinson. That would probably be too scandalous a poem even for one of her personae. Higginson reported her as saying that she shunned “Men and Women” because “they – “they talk of Hallowed things, aloud – and embarrass my Dog.” What counted as a “Hallowed thing” is unclear, but the list isn’t infinite. She also wrote to Higginson of Walt Whitman: “You speak of Mr Whitman—I never read his Book—but was told that he was disgraceful.” One is disppointed to read that, not because she had anything to learn from Whitman’s poetry, but because it suggests that she and her dog were rather prudish little Victorians—in that sort of conventional way that other female poets of the time, like Christina Rosetti, could be insufferably prudish. And yet Dickinson could also be quite exasperated and judgemental of other women’s prudery:
What Soft — Cherubic Creatures —
These Gentlewomen are —
One would as soon assault a Plush —
Or violate a Star —
Such Dimity Convictions —
A Horror so refined
Of freckled Human Nature —
Of Deity — ashamed —
It’s such a common — Glory —
A Fisherman’s — Degree —
Redemption — Brittle Lady —
Be so — ashamed of Thee —
Where does that leave us then? What exactly was she referring to by “freckled Human Nature”. And let’s not forget that Dickinson scandalized her sister-in-law, who came bustling into the her residence only to be sent straight to the fainting couch when she discovered (that little strumpet) Emily, seated on a man’s lap. So, was Dickinson’s “prudery” for public consumption? Was she assuming a persona in her letter and statements to Higginson? Maybe she thought that playing the role of the morally delicate Victorian woman was the right signal? But I rather suspect that Dickinson was a bit of a prude, even in her own day, when it came—not to matters of the heart—but to those other body parts that lose patience with the heart. We want our heroes to be just like us, but we have to recognize the era and community in which she lived. It was scandalous enough that she didn’t visit the pews every Sunday. She probably would have found most of what we enjoy in modern culture— disgraceful. Two world wars changed all that. One is glad, perhaps, that she never lived to see the ostensible destruction of the world she knew. There is certainly a kind of “admiring” and boosterish naïvety in some of her poems about the Civil War, in my opinion, a naïvety she shared with others of her day (who literally brought lawn chairs and picnic baskets to the first significant battle).
I walked—as wings—my body bore—
The feet—I former used—
Unnecessary—now to me—
As boots—would be—to Birds
I put my pleasure all abroad—
I dealt a word of Gold
To every Creature—that I met—
And Dowered—all the World—
Dickinson’s description of her bliss continues. She didn’t walk. She floated—as though carried by wings. Her feet were as useless as boots to a bird. She had nothing but nice things to say (the unavoidable corollary is that she, Emily, normally does not deal ‘words of Gold‘ to every creature). From the imagery of Gold, her mind leaps to the idea of a Dowry. Some might read this as a first hint, regarding the nature of her bliss. To dower, according to the Dickinson Lexicon, is to “Endow; grant; confer; give as a wedding gift.” Once again we wonder as to the nature of Emily’s “bliss”. Normally, a dowry refers to “the money, goods, or estate, which a woman brings to her husband in marriage” This suggests that Dickinson’s bliss does not pertain to an unspoken other, but to the world. Marriage is implied. The world gave to Dickinson the love and recognition she craved.
When—suddenly—my Riches shrank—
A Goblin—drank my Dew—
My Palaces—dropped tenantless—
Myself—was beggared—too—
I clutched at sounds—
I groped at shapes—
I touched the tops of Films—
I felt the Wilderness roll back—
Along my Golden lines—
Suddenly. It all went south. We still don’t know what those Riches are that have suddenly shrunk. What was the dew? Who or what was the Goblin? All that we know is that her Palaces, her fanciful dreams of the future, came crashing down. She was beggared. The only clue, possibly, might be her reference to the Wilderness and “Golden lines”. Arguably, one of the things that Dickinson cared most about was her poetry. I get that. Personally. What if, by lines, she is referring to her poetry? The Dickinson Lexicon offers us several possible interpretations including a “note; phrase; message; comment; inscription; written text; set of words; unit of verse in a lyric poem”. It’s therefore also possible that, by lines, she was referring to the prose of a letter she had written. Was she misunderstood? Was something that she had written rejected? One can think up possible narratives in which Dickinson wrote someone (a letter or poem) thinking that, at last, she and her correspondent had arrived at a revelatory bond of understanding and friendship, only to be brought up short by the correspondent’s response. She tries to recover what she had imagined to be true. She clutches at the sounds of that imagining, the shapes, the “tops of Films”. The Dickinson Lexicon isn’t any help as regards understanding Films (interpreting it as the eye), but there’s an interesting passage in another poem that might help.
The thought beneath so slight a film
Is more distinctly seen, —
As laces just reveal the surge,
Or mists the Apennine.
In this case Dickinson draws a clear analogy between the film covering the thought and laces; or the mists covering the Apennine. In other words, Dickinson is using film as a metonym for mists or clouds. I suspect she has the same meaning in mind. Following Dickinson’s associative leap, she’s just written about palaces that have “dropped”—like castles in the air. The expression, castles in the air, goes all the way back to Montaigne and Sir Philip Sidney:
“And that the Poet hath that Idea, is manifest, by delivering them foorth in such excellencie as he had imagined them: which delivering foorth, also is not wholly imaginative, as we are wont to say by them that build Castles in the aire…” (Sir Philip Sidney, 1554-1586)”
So we can be sure that we’re not being anachronistic when we write that Dickinson probably had this expression in mind when describing the collapse of her palaces. If we interpret “Films” as clouds, then this is just a continuation of the palace imagery. She’s looking among the clouds for her castles in the air. But they’re gone. The Wilderness, and all that it symbolizes—a harsh place that offers no safety or abode—has returned to (rolled back), like weeds to the margins of her “Golden lines”—perhaps likening the lines of her letter or poem to the rows of a garden (to which the world is a stranger and indifferent). Gold, needless to say, implies that the lines were something dear and precious to her.
The Sackcloth—hangs upon the nail—
The Frock I used to wear—
But where my moment of Brocade—
My—drop—of India?
There is something immeasurably sad and poignant in these last lines. Not only is her Cinderella’s gown gone, but there is no closet, only a nail on the wall. Her hopes have turned to sackcloth, and there is her old frock, waiting for her. The Dickinson Lexicon offers us the following meaning for India, a “place of riches, spices, textiles, and other exotic products; [fig.] eloquence; elegant words; beautiful language; poetic inspiration”. I’m not sure on what basis (according to my concordance) they treat the figurative sense of India as being “elegant words” or “beautiful language”, but it melds nicely with our interpretation of “Golden lines”—a reference to a letter, poetry or some other correspondence. She could be referring to her own writing, for example. She no longer sees her own writing, letter, or poem in the same light. The luster is gone. Where is my “drop—of India”?—she asks. The beauty was not in Dickinson’s perception of it, but in her correspondent’s reception of the same. With its being misunderstood, her lovely drop of India lies inert. Her poem, if that’s what it was, was precious for being understood (in the way that two, being married, understand each other). When one loses the understanding of another, then it’s as if our “drop—of India”, our gift (our dowry) were lost to us as well. With that in mind, and given that she describes her joy has having dowered all the world, then let’s see what happens if we treat the poem as describing the reception of her poetry in general.
She begins the poem as the naïve poet believing, with her gift of genius, that she would never “be common more”. With her undertaking to be a poet, “difference had begun”. In the next stanza she describes her bliss and elation in the gift given her to share. What is a better description of attempting to publish (or publishing) her poetry, her words of gold, than the following?
I put my pleasure all abroad—
I dealt a word of Gold
To every Creature—that I met—
And Dowered—all the World—
The tragedy is in her poetry being met with misunderstanding and incomprehension. Suddenly her riches shrank. The goblin—the world’s incomprehension—drank her dew (possibly a pun on due). And she is beggared, left with nothing but sackcloth hung from a nail, and she wonders what happened to all her dreams—her childlike joy in the gifts given her to share. Where is my moment of brocade, she asks, rejected and dejected. What has happened to my drop of India?
Who am I?—she all but asks.
The wonderful image below, which to me captures something of the poem, is by Lisa Perrin and used with her permission.
PoemShape 