(Trying to capture the “un- capture-able" Millay!)
Dear Friends,
I just returned from a holiday to the fair state of Maine! There’s lots to share, but right now I am most excited to report that I visited the home (and haunt!) of one of Maine’s most beloved poets, Pulitzer Prize winner, Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950). Ever since my trip to Sara Teasdale’s home in St. Louis, I’ve thought about making a Millay pilgrimage, and this summer the stars aligned.
I’ve known Millay’s name for some time. Growing up, my dad pointed out the whimsical statue of Millay, which rests on the brow of a hill overlooking the Camden Harbor. After visiting this statue a handful of years ago, I read a few of Millay’s poems, which I loved immediately. The first few lines from “God’s World” are what drew me in:
O world, I cannot hold thee close
enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that roll and rise!
Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache
and sag,
And all but cry with colour!
While in Maine this summer, I began to read Millay in earnest. I found a thick collection of her poems at the local library and set to work studying them bit by bit while sitting out on the sunny back porch. Her gorgeous imagery and brilliant syntax delights me, and it was especially wonderful to read her poems while in her home state— the place where many of the lines were penned or at least inspired.
Like many of my favorite poets, Millay is melancholic, and it’s no wonder given her story. I won’t say much about that here as there is plenty of biographical information out there, but it’s likely she struggled with a serious mental health condition. In a 2009 documentary, Burning Candles: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay, which you can download for free on You-Tube, Millay’s literary executor, Elizabeth Barnett, surmises that Millay suffered from manic depression. Such mental health issues were only exacerbated by alcoholism, drug addiction, and chronic promiscuity.
Along with these problems, my friend Nathan and I (after watching the documentary) agreed that Millay was basically a complete jerk and perhaps even a sociopath. It was especially disheartening to learn that during her New York days (she was part of the Greenwich Villiage milieu circa 1920), she used men and women (including her husband) to her own advantage, leading many a lover on and even playing them against each other at times. Of course none of these details are surprising given many artists at that time followed similar trajectories. Still, I felt a pang of disappointment.
As an aside, I do not agree with the opinion put forward by a few of the Millay experts in the documentary — that it was necessary for Millay, and for all great writers, to treat people badly (specifically, the habit of using people sexually). Such thinking not only excuses bad behavior, but perpetuates the myth of the troubled artist, which claims that to make brilliant art you must create mayhem and seek out suffering.
But when I embarked on my pilgrimage, I knew little about Millay’s personal life, and perhaps it’s just as well. On the last Saturday I spent in Maine, my dad dropped my mom and I off in Camden, a small coastal town off Penobscot Bay. It was here that Millay spent the majority of her youth. After a bout of thrifting (I found a beautiful cashmere sweater!) in the bustling business district off Main Street, we wandered over to our first stop: Whitehall Inn.
From Main Street, we turned onto High Street, a lovely road, lined with sprawling clapboard homes surrounded by lush gardens and old trees. We followed this for maybe a quarter of a mile before arriving at the picturesque inn, which (at least on the outside) preserves its original colonial style design.
(Mom arriving at Whitehall)
(A view of Whitehall from the front)
Stepping inside, we pulled up to a kind of podium, which was the closest we could find to a front desk. A perplexed looking man stood behind it. When my mom questioned him about Millay, he gave us a blank look, and told us he had not heard of her. He also looked confused when we asked about getting a drink at the bar. Clearly, we approached the wrong person.
Before leaving (and drink-less!), we poked around a bit on our own, and soon stumbled upon the “Millay room” ourselves. It was a small sitting area with a piano and a couple of chairs. Atop the piano rests a little sign:
We chuckled about the “or just ask us about her. We’ll give you the scoop” part and set to work checking out the place. As the story goes, this was the room where Millay was “discovered” when she just was twenty years old. Her sister, Norma, who was a waitress at the fashionable inn, invited her to come to a soiree one evening. She knew her sister was talented and thought Millay might make an artistic connection. During the gathering, Millay played the piano after which she recited from memory her lengthy poem "Renascence.” This poem, inspired by the dazzling view atop Mt. Batty, remains famous to this day. Perhaps you will recognize the first stanza?
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I'd started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
The crowd was enraptured, and the course of Millay’s life was forever changed. One of the people in attendance that night happened to be Caroline Dow, a woman with connections to the New York literary scene. Impressed by Millay’s riveting performance, she took a personal interest in the young poet, and through her influence and connections Millay enrolled at Vassar College after which she moved to New York City to launch her career.
Throughout the course of her celebrated career, Millay riveted audiences with her bold, dramatic readings. In the height of her fame, she toured the country performing at packed-out venues. To think it all began in that simple hotel sitting room.
(The piano in the Millay Room)
As my mom and I left, we both agreed that while the inn remains charming on the outside, it could use some interior improvement. The contemporary furniture and paintings did not match the space well — not to mention concierge services was seriously lacking!
After leaving Whitehall Inn, we ordered frothy London Fogs from a local coffee shop and found a bench near Millay’s waterfront memorial. This year I noticed, as I had not before, that Millay’s hands, which are behind her back, clutch a book. To honor her, I plucked a pink clover and placed it atop the bronze leaves. After which, with some coaxing from my mom, I found myself reciting Millay’s poem “Afternoon on a Hill,” which felt apropos.
(An unexpected reading)
(A flower for Millay!)
Following our visit to the statue, we sauntered over to the public library to check out the for-sale books. To my delight, I discovered several old, battered Millay volumes: The Heart Weaver (1923) and Fatal Interview (1931). While I’d been reading a collection of Millay’s poems that span her career, my preference (like most I’m sure) is to read poetry as it was originally published. And I certainly prefer old books — even if they are battered.
My mom found a few books as well — including a beautiful edition of Crime and Punishment, which was in pristine shape — and together we sat under a tree on a little table overlooking the library’s garden, which was overflowing with pink peonies. The only thing missing was a proper cup of tea, which I remedied later.
(Later, with a cup of tea on the back porch!)
For our last stop, we drove to Rockland, a small town just south of Camden. Here lies the simple home where Millay was born. Unable to find parking close by, my dad (who had joined us by then) found a spot a few blocks away, and we walked from there. The neighborhood is humbler then the one we visited in Camden and reflects Millay’s working-class roots.
Apparently, Millay’s mother, Cora, divorced her husband when Millay was eight years old. She brought Millay and her two sisters up on the meager salary she earned as a kind of nurse. While money was short, she continually encouraged her daughters to develop themselves artistically and did what she could to support such pursuits.
Pulling up to the yellow home, I noticed a sign out on the lawn marking its historical significance. Wonderfully, the small clapboard duplex was purchased by a group of neighbors and friends back in 2015. Over the years, the home fell into disrepair and was disintegrating. As the new owners worked to preserve the home, the non-profit Millay House Rockland formed. Along with raising money to repair and preserve Millay’s birth place, this non-profit aims to engage with and support the local artistic community. Coming up this October, the first poet-in-residence will move in.
(From the front of Millay’s Rockland Home)
The only complaint my mom and I had with the Millay House was the eerie stained glass portrait of her, which hangs on the porch. Perhaps it looks creepy because there was not adequate light, and we didn’t actually get to see it glow? Or perhaps we are missing something? I will let you be the judge.
(A spooky portrait)
All in all, it was a wonderful pilgrimage, and I am thrilled to have explored the life of a poet I have long been curious about. As I mentioned earlier, it was sad to read about Millay’s personal life, and I confess that I did feel a measure of disappointment — nothing to do with her struggle with mental health mind you, but everything to do with the way she treated others. Though the two are of course intertwined — especially if a mental health disorder goes untreated.
In processing the broken life of Millay, however, and so many artist really, I am reminded that each of us is afflicted with various faults and foibles, all of which would surely surface much more prominently and likely become exacerbated were we too thrust into the lime light.
I am also glad that I was able to visit the place of Millay’s youth and in doing so reflect on the inherent goodness of her soul, which was clearly a-tune to the beauty and wonder of this world and sensitive to the forces that contaminate and corrupt it. In her heart of hearts, I believe she sought to love like the child she alludes to at the end of Sonnet XI from Fatal Interview:
Not in a silver casket cool with pearls
Or rich with red corundum or with blue,
Locked, and the key withheld, as other girls
Have given their loves, I give my love to you;
Not in a lovers’-knot, not in a ring
Worked in such a fashion, and the legend plain—
Semper fidelis, where a secret spring
Kennels a drop of mischief for the brain:
Love in the open hand, no thing but that,
Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt,
As one should bring you cowslips in a hat
Swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt,
I bring you, calling out as children do:
“Look what I have! — And these are all for you.
May we aspire to the same.
(Millay as a child)
With warmth and summer well wishes,
Laura
Wow!!! What an adventure!!! Thanks for sharing your journey!!