hexafu

PROLOGUE

I played a hunch in the winter of 1972. I drove up Route 22 to a farmhouse called Steepletop in the Taconic Hills of Austerlitz, New York, sat down in the kitchen of that house with Norma Millay, and told her I wanted to write about her sister’s life. Both of us knew that any serious work about Edna St. Vincent Millay had been blocked for almost a quarter of a century. Norma was Edna’s only heir, she controlled her estate, and she thought she might write what she called The Biography. But as we sat there eating and drinking and talking, it became more and more clear to me that I was going to write the biography of Edna Millay, that I would write it with her sister’s help and permission, and that I would resist her influence as best I could. “All right,” she said, raising a tumbler of Dewar’s to mine as if it were a toast, “I’ve waited long enough. It’s yours!”

But that wasn’t the hunch. It was that within the dining room, library, bedrooms, woodshed, and front hall files of Steepletop, beneath the damask tablecloth and under the piano benches there would be a collection of papers, letters, snapshots, notebooks, and drafts of poems that had not been destroyed or lost, as Norma sometimes hinted, that even if in disorder had been carefully kept. They would provide the fresh ground from which a life could be found and shaped.

During the summers of 1975, 1976, 1977, and 1978, I brought thousands of pieces of paper out of that farmhouse. I tried to make a list of what I was removing. This turned out to be difficult, for as I began to read among Edna Millay’s papers, Norma would stop me. She intended to read each piece of paper before I did and to hand it to me. In order, she said, to tell me what it meant. Or might mean. We sat crouched over a letter written in a cascade of inky curls from Georgia O’Keeffe, postmarked Lake George but with the year smudged, telling Edna she wasn’t ready to see her yet; or a scrap of paper from Edmund Wilson reminding her she’d left her rings on his piano and imploring her to let him see her again before she left Greenwich Village for the Cape in the summer of 1920.

I made the list because I anticipated that at the very last minute, at the moment of removal from the grounds of Steepletop and therefore from Norma Millay’s control, she might balk. She did. We dickered. I reminded her we had an agreement drawn up by lawyers according to which she was obliged to release these papers to me so that I could begin to work. I told

her she would receive a hefty percentage of whatever I earned after the book’s publication.

Was it my luck that this extraordinary collection was in no university library? Can luck strike twice? Just as no one had Zelda Fitzgerald’s papers but her daughter, Scottie, who handed them to me in shopping bags, so no one had ever seen this collection. Except, of course, her sister. For who but a Norma Millay or a Lavinia Dickinson, the younger sister of Emily Dickinson, each of whom in her day was considered eccentric, neurotic, and difficult, if not downright ignorant, would have cared with such intensity to have cherished the past so carefully? And with such mixed motives?

To be a biographer is a somewhat peculiar endeavor. It seems to me it requires not only the tact, patience, and thoroughness of a scholar but the stamina of a horse. Virginia Woolf called it “donkeywork”-for who but a domesticated ass would harness herself to what is recoverable of the past and call it A Life? Isn’t there something curious, not to say questionable, about this appetite for other people’s mail, called Letters?

But certain lives—the “rich, dim Shelley drama” Henry James wrote about, the Fitzgeralds-are cautionary tales of high romance upon which entire generations feast. There is almost the same period of time, sixty years, give or take, between the Romantic movement and James’s generation as there is between our own and the writers of the 1920s.

Edna St. Vincent Millay became the herald of the New Woman. She smoked in public when it was against the law for women to do so, she lived in Greenwich Village during the halcyon days of that starry bohemia, she slept with men and women and wrote about it in lyrics and sonnets that blazed with wit and a sexual daring that captivated the nation:

I shall forget you presently, my dear,

So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year,

Ere I forget, or die, or move away,

And we are done forever; by and by

I shall forget you, as I said, but now

If you entreat me with your loveliest lie

I will protest you with my favourite vow.

I would indeed that love were longer-lived,

And oaths were not so brittle as they are,

But so it is, and nature has contrived

To struggle on without a break thus far,—

Whether or not we find what we are seeking

Is idle, biologically speaking.

It wasn’t only that she was the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize in poetry or that Thomas Hardy once said there were really only two great things in the United States, the skyscraper and the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay. It was that when she published “First Fig” in June 1918, her cheeky quatrain ignited the imagination of a generation of American women: she gave them their rallying cry. A wild freedom edged with death.

My candle burns at both ends;

It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

It gives a lovely light!

But it wasn’t all play or sexual glamour with her by a long shot. She stood by the editors of The Masses when they were up against charges of treason in 1918. She marched for Sacco and Vanzetti in 1927 and was arrested for protesting their death sentence, a protest she took all the way to the governor of Massachusetts. She fought the Lindberghs when Anne Morrow Lindbergh published The Wave of the Future in 1940, advising that we capitulate to fascism. When the Nazis razed the entire Czech village of Lidice in 1942, Millay wrote a verse play for radio called “The Murder of Lidice,” which was broadcast throughout America when a third of the country was willing to accept a separate peace with Germany.

In October 1934, Edna Millay read at Yale. A young graduate student, Richard Sewell, who forty years later would become the biographer of Emily Dickinson, never forgot the impression she made that night. Walking to the center of Woolsey Hall, wrapped in a long black velvet cloak, her bright hair shining, she “stood before us,” he remembered, “like a daffodil.”

Tickets for her readings were wildly sought whether she was in Oklahoma City or Chicago, where the hall seating 1,600 was sold out and even with standees an extra hall had to be taken for the overflow of another 800 who listened to her over amplifiers.

There were other writers who read in America in her time. Gertrude Stein was touring in the United States precisely when Millay was, and somewhat before Millay there had been Carl Sandburg and Vachel Lindsay, popular poets who were unacknowledged models for Robert Frost’s readings. But Millay’s was an entirely different sort of performance. Lindsay and Sandburg were part of a pattern of performance that went back to James Whitcomb Riley, that old Hoosier the Millay sisters adored when they were little, back even to Emerson and Twain.

But Millay was the first American figure to rival the personal adulation, frenzy even, of Byron, where the poet in his person was the romantic ideal.

Edna Millay was the only American woman to draw such crowds to her. Her performing self made people feel they had seen the muse alive and just within reach. They laughed with her, and they were moved by her poetry. Passionate and charming, or easy and lofty, she not only brought them to their feet, she brought them to her. In the heart of the Depression her collection of sonnets Fatal Interview sold 35,000 copies within the first few weeks of its publication.

Norma was as generous as she was possessive. When I arrived to do research—for the papers I had taken turned out to be only a fraction of the entire collection-I was to have breakfast in bed, as her sister had, with freshly squeezed orange juice and hot coffee in a silver carafe with heavy cream. I slept in the north bedroom that had been Edna’s husband Eugen’s.

On the wall next to the bed was an oil painting by Charles Ellis, Norma’s

been Edna’s husband Eugen’s.

On the wall next to the bed was an oil painting by Charles Ellis, Norma’s husband, of Norma, nude, swimming in a pool while a man holding a drink was watching her. Norma slept in her sister’s bedroom on her linen sheets.

I would work in Edna’s studio, away from the farmhouse just on the edge of a field of blueberries. I drove a dark green Morgan roadster in those days, and I would take Norma for a spin across those rough fields while she hollered with delight, her long blond-white hair flying out behind her.

There was always some young person, most often a woman, sailing into her orbit and sometimes being flung out again. She called them her myrmidons. These relationships were never casual: some people stayed for years. If they’d come because of their love of Edna Millay’s poetry, they stayed because of Norma. Norma was seductive. She exercised her considerable powers not primarily for sexual attraction, although that was certainly still a part of her charm—that she flirted with being sexual—but to ply her will and to get others to do her bidding. She could be merciless.

There were hilarious scenes when guests from distinguished universities and others hoping to secure her papers were brought to their knees by Norma’s sly willfulness. She told one such gentleman he would look adorable without his glasses. No one had told him he looked adorable for a long time, and he seemed to swell with his new handsomeness. Norma suddenly leaned over, took his glasses from his face, and said, “There! Don’t you look splendid?” He laughed winsomely. Then she brought out the nude photographs of her sister she’d used as bait to lure him to Steepletop.

He couldn’t see of course without his glasses. Might he have them back?

“Oh, la!” Norma said prettily. “Did you think I was going to let a stranger gaze upon the naked body of my sister?”

There were only three things she said she’d destroyed. One was a letter returned to her by a no-longer-young man to whom Edna had written.

Norma said it was indiscreet. Edna described his physical beauty in detail and made what she wanted clear. He was homosexual. Norma said, “Maybe she didn’t care. Anyway, he turned her down. We can’t have that.” There was an ivory dildo, which Norma admitted was difficult to burn, but she’d managed. And there was a set of pornographic photographs, taken, she thought, about the same time as the nude photographs from Santa Fe in 1926 or 1927, when Millay was writing her libretto, The King’s Henchman, for the Metropolitan Opera. These were of Eugen and Edna, she said. Some were taken down at the pool, perhaps shot by Eugen using a timing device on his camera. Norma guessed that Arthur Davison Ficke had a hand in shooting them. “Vincent was already a famous poet, how could she have let these photographs of her be taken? Well, she did. Naughty Vincent Millay! I found them, and I destroyed them. For her own good! You can put that down!”

Edna St. Vincent Millay, whose very name her mother said was song, was shy and small and intense, almost prim. Her hair was her glory—it was the color of fire. Thick and curling, it fell to her waist. Her skin was as pale as milk. She was the firstborn, the eldest of three sisters who were as unalike and yet as close as the fingers on a hand. They had to be, for there was nothing and no one behind them but their mother. Their parents had separated in 1900 in Maine.

I remember a swamp … that made a short-cut to the railroad station when I was seven. It was down across that swamp my father went, when my mother told him to go & not to come back.

(Or maybe she said he might come back if he would do better—but who ever does better?) | This book begins at home, where all family romances start. There were in the Millay family certain stories that rose out of the past with a power and thrust that was felt through three generations of women. These were tales of romance and hardship, but, even more crucially, of female infidelity and freedom won at high cost. They were as much of a shared legacy as their red hair. Bargains were struck between mother and daughter, and acts were committed with no knowledge of the consequences that would befall them.

What I had not counted on was that creature for whom there is no name,