Prose (74 page)

On my mother's side I had three aunts: Maud, Grace, and Mary. You don't need to mention names, I think—I lived with Maud and was—and am—fondest of Grace. Mary is only 12 years older than I am—she is mentioned in both those stories. These last two are both living in Canada; Aunt Maud died about 1942—I'm not sure. She and her husband stayed near me for two or three winters, or parts of winters, in Key West. There was also a brother, Uncle Arthur—of the poem—Their father, my grandfather, was my favorite grandparent. He owned the local tannery, until local tanning vanished—the pits for it were still there, and part of the old shop, when I was small. Also small-scale farming, like everyone else, almost, in Great Village. He was a darling; sweet-tempered, devout, and good with children. (“Manners” is about him) He was a deacon of the Baptist church and when he passed the collection plate he would slip me one of those strong white peppermints that say (still, I think) CANADA on them.

Great Village is very small and well-preserved—the last time I saw it, at least—1951, like a small New England village, all white houses, elm trees, one large white church in the middle (designed I believe by great uncle George).
*
It is in the rich farming country around the head of the Bay of Funday: dark red soil, blue fir trees—
bur
birches, a pretty river running into the Bay through “salt marshes”—a few remains of the old Acadian dikes—it is Evangeline country—Cape Breton is quite different; sparsely populated, forested, full of lakes—supposed to be like Scotland, and more Gaelic is spoken there than anywhere else in the world. I spent a summer there—48, I think, when I wrote a few poems about it. My mother went off to teach school at 16 (the way most of the enterprising young people did) and her first school was in lower Cape Breton somewhere—and the pupils spoke nothing much but Gaelic so she had a hard time of it at that school, or maybe one nearer home—she was so homesick she was taken the family dog to cheer her up. I have written both a story and a poem about this episode but neither satisfy me yet.

I went very briefly to the real “country” school where we wrote on slates and had many classes in each room—not all in one, because G V had the country school, so it was fairly large. You took a bottle of water and a rag to clean your slate—the bad boys spat on theirs. A little Micmac Indian boy, Jimmy Crow, was in “primer class” with me; most of the rest had Scotch names and looked very Scotch. Muir MacLaughlin I made the childish mistake of calling “Manure”—When I found him running a local store on my last trip there he recognized me and reminded me of this. The teacher's name was Georgie Morash and I can see her clearly. She sang in the choir—as did my various relatives—and all those who sang in the choir I remember very well because I spent so many sermons studying them one by one. Miss Patriquin, (aunt of Gwendolyn “Applyard” whose name was really Gwendolyn Patriquin) taught the infant Sunday School class I attended. She later went mad and chased bad boys through the village with a carving knife. My aunt Mary and I actually attended school together at this stretch. She made me late and I howled in the cloakroom (I have always been over-punctual) until Miss Morash came and consoled me. Mary was very pretty and had many suitors. It was during the first World War—the village boys (a kilted regiment) would come to say goodbye and their clothes were wonderful, of course. Most of them were never seen again—almost every boy in that tiny place, from 18–22, was killed in one of the big battles—Canadians first, of course—and the whole village was in mourning—but this was after I'd left. (Over 20 boys, I think) I had a dachshund, “Betsy”—given to my mother when I was born, and she sent her to G V to her mother—the only dog of that sort ever seen there, of course, and a village character. The “big boys” hung around on the bridge, and she was afraid of them—so in order to cross the village to meet my grandfather on his way back from the farm, etc.—she would make a long detour and actually cross the river at a wide shallow place, on stepping stones. One summer Sunday afternoon, all good Baptists in the church, the doors open, Dr. Francis, the minister, was on his knees praying, when a patter-patter was heard and Betsy trotted down the aisle past our pew. She was fond of Dr. Francis and went right up on the platform and jumped to lick his face. He opened his eyes and said “Why, hello Betsy” and then went on praying.

Mary played the piano, quite well—all the aunts played some—and I think that and the hymns were how I came to love music from the beginning. This whole period in my life was brief—but important, I know.
*
The village was 50 years or so backwards—we made yeast from the hopvine on the barn; had no plumbing, oil lamps etc. My grandmother was a famous butter-maker. Everything is quite changed now of course. But when I came to live first in Samambaia and we had oil lamps for two or three years, etc. a lot came back to me. I helped design our sitting room stove for example needed up there “winters” and without ever having done such things before I found myself baking bread, making marmalade, etc.—When the need arises apparently the old Nova Scotian domestic arts come back to me!

Like most poets, I have a very morbid total recall of certain periods and I could go on for hours—but I won't!

I know next to nothing about the Bishops, and have no idea when they “came over”, rather I have forgotten. There were 3 brothers, one was a doctor in Plymouth, Mass., I
think
—the 2nd I'd don't know—the 3rd farmed in White Sands, Prince Edward Island. My grandfather B, according to the family story, ran away aged 12, with a box of carpenters' tools on his back, and went first to Providence. His was an Horatio Alger story. He married very well, and made a “million,” etc. Sarah Foster, his wife, came from a very
very
old New England family, originally from Quincy—she came from Holden. I also have a batch of papers from that branch, about her ancestors in the Revolution on that side—but again they are really not very interesting. One man, I remember, was in and out of the army many times—the way they were—and was imprisoned in the notorious prison ship in New York harbor—and seems to have survived it because he was a
cook.

The Bishop grandparents came to visit in Canada several times, apparently—twice that I remember. Although my father had married a poor country girl the older generation were still enough alike, I think, so that they got along in spite of the money difference—it was the next generation that made me suffer acutely. The B's were very early motorists—once they actually drove to G V and their huge car and chauffer made a sensations—also the fact that they wired the local hotel for rooms & bath—when there wasn't a bath in the village. I was probably regarded as a small fairy princess, but I was too young to notice.
It
The thrill of riding with that grandpa on the dusty country roads—and the chauffeur,
Rondal
Ron
d
ald, of whom I became fond and who was very nice to me later on in Worcester. (
We
had only a buggy, of course, or two, rather, one with fringe, and a wagon, and in the winter a sleigh and a “pung.”) The B's were horrified to see the only child of their eldest son running about the village in bare feet, eating at the table with the grown-ups and drinking
tea,
and so I was carried off (by train) to Worcester for the one awful winter that was almost the end of me. 1917–18.

I had already had bad bronchitis and probably attacks of asthma—in Worcester I got much worse and developed exzema that almost killed me.
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One awful day I was sent home from “first grade” because of my sores—and I imagine my hopeless shyness has dated from then.—In May, 1918, I was taken to live with Aunt Maud; I couldn't walk and Ronald carried me up the stairs—my aunt burst into tears when she saw me. I had had nurses etc.—but that stretch is still too grim to think of, almost. My grandfather had gone to see my aunt M privately and made the arrangements—he said my grandmother didn't “know how to take care of her own children”, most of them had died.—My aunt was paid to care for me—but she would have anyway, I imagine, if there'd been no money. She really devoted herself to me for years until I got better—she probably never slept for nights and nights, getting me injections of adrenaline, etc. etc.—

When I couldn't go to school in Worcester—well, I remember one evening I was sitting under the living room table building blocks and my Grandfather said as if to himself, “I wonder if some little girl would like to take piano lessons”—so Miss Darling came to teach me. I was too small, but loved it—and always took lessons, but never had a good teacher until I got to Walnut Hill.

I began writing poetry at about 8 and when I was 11 or so I remember Aunt Grace giving me some good advice about listening to criticism, not getting one's feelings hurt, etc. I went to school off and on, but remember chiefly lying in bed wheezing and reading—and my dear aunt Maud going out to buy me more books. When I was 13 I was well enough, summers, to go to camp, and it wasn't until then, briefly, and then at Walnut Hill, that I met girls who were as clever, or cleverer than I was, and made friends, and began to cheer up a bit.

The last time I was in Boston I went to see an elderly uncle by marriage (his 1st wife, my father's sister, died the year I was born) and he told me that he had tried to adopt me legally that year in Worcester because he felt so sorry for me—he had three children of his own. He also said “Your mother was the most beautiful skater I ever saw—I fell in love with her, too, when I saw her skate.” These bits of information always surprise me very much, since I know so little—I have a lot of cousins here and there—The next to last Bishop, an aunt, died last year aged 86 or 87—I'm the last actually, of that short and undistinguished line. I never fought with what family I had, never had to “rebel”, etc.—I was always on more or less visiting terms with them, and I feel that has had a profound and not altogether good effect on me—it produces passivity, detachment, etc—on the other hand making one's friends one's family, really. But from the age of 18 I have always been independent and gone where I wanted to. My relatives now, I think, chiefly wonder why I don't write best sellers and earn some money if I'm supposed to be so smart—the phrase is “Too smart for her own good,” I believe …

 

2. I don't think my music studies are worth mentioning, really. I took clavichord lessons the first winter in Paris, and the next year I took some more with Kirkpatrick in New York—when I lived at the old Hotel Chelsea for a few months—but I never was any good at it, at all. I always dream of studying some more, also the piano again. The clavichord is here now, in its traveling case, because I've at last found someone in Rio who can tune it for me—but I was never a performer—I played piano in public a few times at college and lost my nerve forever. (Two very good old friends of Lota's and mine are Fizdale & Gold, the two-piano team—if you've ever heard them? They are
superb.
We visit them whenever we can—) So—just say I love music!

 

3. On my first stay in Paris (and the 2nd one, after about ten months) I knew very few people. I could have, if it hadn't been for this “shyness”—or whatever is the word now—whatever it is, it had made my life quite different from what perhaps it might have been—I had published a few poems. I remember Sylvia Beach invited me to a party—or parties—Spender was at one, Joyce at another—and I'd get to the door, lose my nerve and run away. (I never did speak to Spender until last year in Brazil.) I had letters to people in London,
Life & Letters To-day,
etc. and the same thing happened—I took a taxi to the door and didn't dare go in. (I'm afraid you'll begin to think I am a hopeless idiot, after this True Confession, but there it is.) Also—I'm a dreadful linguist. I understand French perfectly, (and now Portuguese) and some Spanish, and read them all—but I hate to talk a foreign language—particularly French. (Do have your little girl learn a language or two well—to speak it—it will improve her social life all her life …) In Paris I did meet a lot of famous people, I suppose,—even Picasso for a moment—and many more to look at, a good many painters, etc.—but that doesn't mean I ever exchanged any words with them except “Enchantée.” G. Stein and Alice B—I was invited to tea, with a friend—and the friend went without me, finally. What an idiot! (Since then—just a year or so ago—I've corresponded with Alice B who wanted to come to Brazil, of all places—I discouraged her firmly.) What was going on in Paris then was mostly surrealism, that I remember—André Breton & his gallery; I met Ernst, Giacometti, etc—but—I just looked at them. I spent a lot of time taking walks, also at the Deux Magots and the Flore—quite different then than now—

I have learned to disguise my
social
terrors quite a lot, and also—always—if I really like someone well enough I don't get them—Marianne, for example—the one “celebrity” I have ever deliberately tried to meet in my life.—
and
We got along immediately. I was never afraid for a moment of Neruda, or Cummings, or, Cal—Jarrell, etc.—And then I have improved—over the years—

I met Loren in 1939, I think, in N.Y.—I'd seen a few of her paintings and liked them. We became friends immediately and she & her husband, Lloyd Frankenberg, stayed with me for two winters in Key West. John Dewey bought a painting she did that first winter. He bought it in N.Y.—but he used to go to KW winters then, too,—I had stared at him and his daughter as I ate the 50¢ fish dinner in a little restaurant, but never met them (the daughter who has since been a friend for 24 years—to whom the poem Cold Spring is dedicated). When Loren came back to KW we all went to call.