The House by the Sea (15 page)

“There were those who staunchly, throughout, defended Bloomsbury, counter-attacking by accusing Lawrence and Leavis of envy: envy of the charmed circle, the social connections, the small private incomes. Myself, I plead guilty to envy. Reading Virginia Woolf's letters is a deeply moving experience, and one of its most moving aspects is the glimpse it provides of a circle which, despite death, madness and suicide, was indeed charmed. Such loyalty, such friends, such love, such conversations and correspondences and journeys, such kindness: who would not envy them their solidarity? … Most writers are solitary and do not move in circles, but there cannot be many of them who do not feel stirred by the image of a golden age where a circle was possible. Bloomsbury provides such an image, and brings tears to the eyes of the outcast: of rage, of envy, of regret, who can say?”

M.D. goes on to speak of V.W.'s courage and resilience. It is high time that someone did so! Oh, how lucky I was that for a few years just before 1940 I had a little taste of that magic circle! I suppose it created a permanent nostalgia, for here in America I have never found anything like it. The pain and the jealousy are too great among writers here, and even in those days when Eberhart, Wilbur, Ciardi, Holmes, and I got together now and then to read and discuss poems, I always went home devastated and miserable.

It is next to impossible, I find, to go back into the immediate past when one is keeping a journal. I suppose the very nature of a journal is catching things on the wing … and by the time one has an hour in which to look back, so much else has already happened—such as seeing a kingfisher, a review of Woolf's letters—that one has no interest in the immediate past.

The sun was out on my first day in Ithaca, fortunately at least a gleam or two, for Rita Guerlac took me on a walk down one of the gorges (it was Enfield Gorge) near the city. These are deep gorges brooks have worn down through slate cliffs … and that is partly why it is such an amazingly beautiful sight. All I could think of was Poussin, for the cliffs look quite architectural, with wide “steps” carved out, and sometimes clean geometrical edges. The brook flows fast, from one waterfall to another. I looked up the dark cliff side to see a maple, brilliant gold, clinging to a shelf, and, nearer by, exquisite harébells and moss in the crevices. It was like a dream of all the varieties of waterfall, from steep descents in a single narrow spill, to wide falls down under ledges.

Henry Guerlac had kindly arranged a dinner party in my honor at the Society of the Humanities. I so rarely attend a dinner party these days (have I ever, in fact, been part of society?) that I found it all delightful, especially as I sat beside Ammons, the poet, and felt at home with him at once. He is very shy, a sandy-haired, middle-aged man, who is recovering from winning all the prizes last year … I was quite amused to hear that he feels
silenced
at this point. Alison Lurie was two chairs away on my left. I really had no chance to talk with her. She looks like a gentle perceptive witch. Part of the charm of the evening was the great paneled room with romantic friezes painted along the ceiling, the formal scene itself, and such a splendid dinner, starting (curiously) with raspberries. I had had lunch with James McConkey and young McCall … I felt quite deprived that Jim was far away at the other end of the table. But for once I went to bed after a social occasion having no remorse for some faux- pas or madness of over-enthusiasm or rage.

The contrast to all this could not have been greater than the cellar room in the Massapequa, Long Island, library where I read poems the next day … but what a delightful audience it was! I do love reading the poems. It's like hearing music again … you can hear it in your head, but it is not the same thing as a concert, and poetry only lives and breathes when it is spoken aloud.

I spent the night at Carol and Jim Heilbrun's, in their spacious old apartment on Central Park West. They are on the second floor, just at the height of the treetops—such a romantic view! As we sat and talked, I felt perfect happiness and accord … and glanced now and then at Duncan Grant's self-portrait on one wall and Vanessa Bell's self-portrait over the mantel. It was moving to see them. (The Bell I had not seen before, as it is a recent acquisition.) I left five of the chapters from the book with Carol—and what a blessing when she told me she had read the Bowen and thought it good. I do not always agree with her, but her judgment means a lot to me, nevertheless. Who else is there whose literary acumen I trust?

Tuesday, October 7th

A
LONG HIATUS
because these are such great days, and so full, between the garden (I planted fifty tulips day before yesterday) and the rising pressure on the book. I have been working all this week on revising the portrait of my mother that I first wrote ten years ago; yesterday, while trying to find a letter I might use, I came on a snap taken in 1920 at Pemaquid Point. I was eight and I am standing on a rock in bare feet, very straight, solemn, my mouth open, and clearly singing loudly. On the back my mother wrote, “May chantant à la mer—elle a aussi dansé frénétiquement!—La mer par moments l'excite—Elle a dansé et crié la premiére fois qu'elle a été à une plage (en 1916) vraiment comme une petite folle.” I have no memory of this; my memories of the summer at Pemaquid Point are of gloomy dark woods, mushrooms, a long walk to get water every day, and my mother depressed. I remember my terror at the surf on the rocks because a woman had been drowned there, sucked down by a wave, then battered. A place of real fear for me. So it is strange to come upon this totally different picture, and it gave me heart. For, clearly, the sea was a powerful emotional force. So perhaps my dream that it might be the final muse and bring me back to poetry may not be mad after all.

But this photo also made me realize again for the thousandth time since I began
A World of Light
how tricky memory is. And in how many ways the same experience may be seen, even by the person himself. Yesterday at two
P.M.
, when I was fast asleep, trying to quiet down after a harrowing morning of work and be ready for David Michaud, who was coming at three for a short visit, the front door bell pinged. I got up and staggered down in my stocking feet, thinking it must be a delivery. Instead, an elegant middle-aged woman stood there and said, “I'm from La Jolla and couldn't resist coming to see you to tell you how much I admire … et cetera.” I was cold with anger, flurried, and said, “Please give me a moment to put on some shoes … I was resting.” It's strange how very perturbed and jangled I felt, but so far no one has arrived here unannounced, and I hoped it would never happen. I couldn't shake the anger, and told her and her daughter whom she went to fetch (the daughter had stayed in the car) that I felt it was an imposition, and would they knock on Anne Lindbergh's door unannounced? “I should have written her a note to ask,” said the woman, “but there was no time, since we are just passing through.” All summer I have been badgered by people who have to come to see me at
their
convenience, because they are in the region, and I've done hardly any good work as a result. I suppose that is why I felt outraged. These last days have been or felt like “my real life” again … the autumn so beautiful, the dark blue sea, and time to myself … it all got ripped to pieces by “a person from Porlock” yesterday.

I slept badly, a night of flotsam and jetsam moving around in my head. At one point I had such a clear vision of Rosalind that it is still vivid. I was really too tired after David left … all I could manage was to pick a few flowers (any night now we'll have the killing frost).

It is not that I work all day; it is that the work needs space around it. Hurry and flurry break into the deep still place where I can remember and sort out what I want to say about my mother. And this is a rather hard time, because it is still hard to write about her, so I was more than usually vulnerable and exposed.

Tuesday evening, October 7th

A
MARVELOUS DAY
here … and now the most perfect Fra Angelico blue sea, no wind, the sunset just touching the end of the field. Perfectly still, except for the cry of a jay far off.

I must try to note exactly what happened, for it was such a great day. First I finished the portrait of my mother. On my walk with Tamas we ran into Mary-Leigh and Bev mowing the far field in the woods … and Bev pointed out to me a huge owl, sitting on a dead branch, looking down at us. The owl was wide awake—unusual for an owl in daylight and turned dark eyes on us … and then, much to my dismay, on Bramble! (Bramble had not seen this awful presence over her head!) We made our escape, and Bramble is now home, thank goodness. I think I have seen the owl once before, not really seen, but have been aware of the silent passage of great wings just above my head in the woods. I have always dreamed of seeing an owl here; this one was a barred owl, I think.

The mail brought plants—twelve primroses, three Shasta daisies, three stokesia, and six of the small blue campanula. They looked rather dwindled and sad after their journey, but I got them all in and covered the primroses with plastic pots, as frost is announced for tonight. I had it in mind not only to pick the last flowers, just in case, and that I did too, but also (madness!) to make jam from green cherry tomatoes … there are dozens of them, so I picked four cupfuls and have just now got them all ready under a layer of lemon, cinnamon, and ginger, mixed with two cups of sugar, and shall cook them before I go off on my expedition tomorrow.

Wednesday, October 8th

I
DID
have a marvelous “holiday” day but it seems a month ago … As I got near to the mountains, so beautiful (purple) across Lake Winnipesaukee, all my love for New Hampshire came back. I always forget how marvelous the beech leaves are in autumn … I remember the shout of color of the maples, but I never quite remember the strange Chinese yellow and sharp green and then bronzy gold, later on, of the beeches. I enjoyed seeing Huldah Sharp again … she is cool and deep and a pleasure, because there is no emotional tension. With such people I too feel mature and able to cope with things and to be at ease.

But after that day of holiday the rest of the week was Hell, and I wish to forget it. I should have learned long ago—and thought I had in Nelson—that when people insist that they have to see me because they love the work, what they really want is to talk about themselves. They never look at the flowers, or even the sea … and I feel jangled and uncentered after their visits. So much guilt and woe ensues, I feel mean-spirited. Basta!

I went to fetch Judy for the weekend, hoping for translucent days, but it rained both on Saturday and Sunday … it was balm to be with her after the experiences of the week; she comes so fresh to the flowers, exclaims about their beauty over and over, says, “I want to scream!” when we see a marvelous tree all lit up against the sunlight, but stays very quiet and looks. How happy we are together in spite of her loss of mind!

Mary-Leigh and Bev are away this week. Strange how absolute the silence feels when they are not here! I am all alone in this huge space of sea, sky, and trees … At first I feel a little frightened, for if I were attacked no one would hear a scream or cry. Then I feel the new dimension of not having to be aware, as I am, despite their discretion toward me and mine toward them.

Thursday, October 16th

I'
M TROUBLED
about the book, tired, and these beautiful autumn days feel wasted because I am only half there. The only thing is to work along day by day and try to concentrate on making one page, one paragraph, better.

I have been meaning to note something Charlotte Zolotov said in a letter the other day. When we met in New York I mentioned that I have it in mind to write a cookbook for the solitary person someday. She says, “A lot of poetry of living, especially alone, takes place in the kitchen.” I thought of this yesterday when I was cutting up green cherry tomatoes to make a second try at jam (the first turned out too runny because I was rushed). I looked down on Raymond far below cutting out brush to frame the dogwood we had just put in (and lovely they look … their red leaves catching the evening light!) and felt calmed by the domesticity, cutting up, finding cinnamon and ginger, enjoying the smells of the kitchen, and looking out into the autumn woods. It was, as Charlotte said, a moment full of poetry. The poetry, perhaps, is in making something quietly without the anguish and tension of real creation. Often I am very tired when I have to cook my dinner, especially on these days of fierce work in the garden. But always, once I get started, I feel peace flow in, and am happy.

Wednesday, October 22nd

A
MAZING
that we have had no hard frost yet! Last evening I picked more large pink dahlias, three of the annual lupine, scabiosa, and marigolds … so there are still bunches of flowers in the house. That was after I put in more than two hundred small bulbs. It was so warm I was pursued by mosquitoes under the bushes.

The pressure mounts these days, and, as always when I need to concentrate on my own work, more and more demands pour in—this week recommendations to do two batches of mss which I am obliged for different reasons to read carefully and comment on. The result is that I feel ill and have nervous indigestion. I would give almost anything not to have to respond to anyone or anything for three weeks—impossible dream!

The beech leaves are still glowing in a great arch over the road at one interval of a hundred yards or so. I look forward to arriving there each day when I walk Tamas. Because of the rain, the brooks and little ponds are full, and the startling beauty now is brilliant leaves floating on their shiny black surface, and at last yesterday reflecting a blue sky.

The journal will have to wait, I guess, till I am through this tunnel.