Grief is a Mouse —

Grief is a Mouse —
And chooses the Wainscot in the Breast
For His Shy House —
And baffles quest—

Grief is a Thief — quick startled —
Pricks His Ear — report to hear
Of that Vast Dark —
That swept His Being — back—

Grief is a Juggler — boldest at the Play —
Lest if He flinch — the eye that way
Pounce on His Bruises — One — say — or Three —
Grief is a Gourmand — spare His luxury —

Best Grief is Tongueless — before He’ll tell —
Burn Him in the Public Square —
His Ashes — will
Possibly — if they refuse — How then know —
Since a Rack couldn’t coax a syllable — now.



     -F753, J793, Fascicle 36, 1863



“And Baffles quest”

This line, which here describes a mouse-like grief, could be said of Dickinson’s poetry as a whole. We do our best to get into the “wainstcot in the breast” of the poems, but the mouse is sly. And this poem too, like its subject, baffles quest.

These metaphors for grief are surprising. Who but Emily Dickinson would equate grief with a mouse, or a juggler? It is this quality of surprise that makes the images stick in our minds.

Grief is a Mouse —
And chooses the Wainscot in the Breast
For His Shy House —
And baffles quest—

How is grief like a mouse? It gnaws and gnaws at us, but it is also shy. It doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t want to be vulnerable to the preying of cats, so it stays hidden. 

Is this hiding away a good thing? I think that word “shy” here gives us the idea of something that wants to be reached, wants to be discovered. 

“The wainscot in the breast” makes the self into a house. In our house there is a mouse, and, looking forward to the next stanza, it becomes clear that this mouse is stealing our cheese.

Grief is a Thief — quick startled —
Pricks His Ear — report to hear
Of that Vast Dark —
That swept His Being — back—

Grief doesn’t just gnaw at us, it steals from our well-being. I imagine this mouse stealing our cheese, our joy, but being snuck up on, by the cat. Grief the Mouse is terrified by that void, by "that Vast Dark —/ That swept His Being — back—” What a way to put it!

Grief is a Juggler — boldest at the Play —
Lest if He flinch — the eye that way
Pounce on His Bruises — One — say — or Three —

These lines are puzzling. What is it that grief juggles? Emotions? You have to put on one face, while you feel another way. Is that what is meant by “boldest at the Play”? The actor is acting, but acting to suppress the drama, so that the drama stays hidden.

In the first stanza Grief was shy, but here it is bold. How can it be both? It is shy of being found out, but bold in evading being found out. That’s my best guess here. 

If the juggler flinches, he draws fire. You have to keep the act going perfectly well. This is what makes me think Dickinson is possibly talking about the grief of losing a lover here. The pain can’t be found out, or else the jig is up. 

Why does Dickinson write, “One say or Three,” when referring to the bruises? Why not "Two say or Three"?  It’s strange. It seems like a clue, but it baffles quest. Is Dickinson talking about the balls being held in the air? Maybe it is a reference to the one (unity) of two lovers as opposed to the craziness of a lover’s triangle? This fits pretty well the situation that Dickinson was in with Sue and Austin. She was juggling between the oneness of her relationship with Sue and the more fraught relationship of the three of them, in which “oneness” was difficult.

Obviously I’m doing a lot of guessing here. This poem evades detection like the mouse behind the wainscot. Is this poem purposely baffling, in order to evade being understood? If so, it's a catch 22, because that makes us want to figure it out all the more. Dickinson teases us, like a cat teases a mouse.

There is something delicious about this grief too. In the next line we get

Grief is a Gourmand — spare His luxury —

That mouse stealing and eating all the cheese, enjoying the pain. It’s a luxury to hurt. It’s like the heartbroken lover who relishes wallowing in their pain, because it hurts so good.*

Best Grief is Tongueless — before He’ll tell —
Burn Him in the Public Square —
His Ashes — will
Possibly — if they refuse — How then know —
Since a Rack couldn’t coax a syllable — now.

I think there is a sense of sarcasm here that makes me wonder if this poem was aimed at a lover, in order to unleash their grief.  Grief would rather be burned at the stake before tell what it is that grieves it. Before he'll tell, his ashes will, "Possibly." But if they refuse, then even torture will no longer coax another word out. What a shame.

But if Dickinson is speaking of her own grief, and she may well be, then the "syllable" is referring to the  poem itself. What Dickinson is telling us with her tongue is that her grief is tongueless and therefore she isn’t telling. Grief would rather be burned at the stake in public than tell. That's very dramatic! The retreating lover won’t get the satisfaction of knowing they are being grieved over and the dignity of the griever will be left intact.

(In the poem before this one in the fascicle, written for Sue, we have a volcanic mountain retreating. Could this poem be a continuation of the pent-up drama? Quite possibly.)   

In trying to understand an underlying message in this poem I keep coming back to the idea in the second stanza that something is being stolen from us by grief, but the fear of that "vast dark" is keeping us from stopping it. Face your fear, and quit wallowing.

I suspect there is something I'm not quite grasping here yet though. It baffles quest. If you have further ideas, please comment!

     -/)dam Wade l)eGraff

*Dickinson often writes about the benefit of pain. See F706 where she chooses not to live with someone, accepting instead the white sustenance Despair.

I cannot live with You –
It would be Life –
And Life is over there –
Behind the Shelf

So We must meet apart –
You there – I – here –
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer –
And that White Sustenance – (White) Exercise, Privilege
Despair –

Note: Long time Prowling Bee commentor Larry B has started his own blog. For his take on this poem go there.