We had a delicious pancake breakfast with three of the other
guests who’d flown up from Texas and rented a car—a couple traveling with his
elderly mother just to see the changing leaves. They’d come from northern Vermont the day before and gave us
news we did not care to hear—the leaves were mostly off the trees. Our host answered our questions about
the house. It seems Emily was not
at all happy when it was built because it blocked her view of the
mountains. But she soon made
friends with the children of the family, baking them cookies and playing with
them. However, they were all soon
to die of typhoid fever and Emily began to refer to the house as the house of
sorrows. Here is one of the poems
she wrote about the house we stayed in:
There's Been A Death In
The Opposite House
by Emily Dickinson
There's been a death in
the opposite house
As lately as to-day.
I know it by the numb
look
Such houses have alway.
The neighbors rustle in
and out,
The doctor drives away.
A window opens like a
pod,
Abrupt, mechanically;
Somebody flings a
mattress out,--
The children hurry by;
They wonder if It died on
that,--
I used to when a boy.
The minister goes stiffly
in
As if the house were
his,
And he owned all the
mourners now,
And little boys
besides;
And then the milliner,
and the man
Of the appalling trade,
To take the measure of
the house.
There'll be that dark
parade
Of tassels and of coaches
soon;
It's easy as a sign,--
The intuition of the
news
In just a country town.
