Throughout the following months, as Britain braced itself for a German attack that never came, as Norway fell, then Denmark, then Holland, Auden worked on his next major poem, “New Year Letter,” and the Commentaries that would accompany it—another attempt to work through his sense of what the artist’s role should be in relation to society, especially during wartime. The process proved difficult—he made many more deletions and corrections than usual. This was not surprising, as the news continued to be depressing and distracting throughout this period, when he was trying to create a new philosophy utterly different from any that he had held before.
But it was the useful kind of difficulty, precisely the type that, Auden believed, every artist was put on earth to face. “While those whom we love are dying or in terrible danger,” he stated in a commencement address at Smith College on the day France fell to Germany, “the overwhelming desire to do something this minute to stop it makes it hard to sit still and think. Nevertheless that is our particular duty in this place at this hour. To try to understand what has come upon us and why.” Quoting Rilke, whose Letters to a Young Poet he had recently read, Auden insisted that “we must always hold to what is difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most hostile will become what we most trust and find most faithful . . . perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.”
By the time George Davis approached Auden with his proposition for 7 Middagh Street, the poet had already reached another turning point in his thinking. Much of his developing philosophy had to do with a growing conviction that, contrary to his earlier belief in the essential goodness of human nature, the type of evil overtly expressed by Hitler and others like him existed potentially in every human being. These terrible powers at work within us, or carrying out their work through us, could never be fully eradicated, Auden now believed—not through art, education, economics, politics, or any other means. This did not mean he believed that one should stand by and allow the individuals who chose to act on their evil impulses to continue. It did mean, however, that another approach must be taken in fighting them. No one could operate from the assumption that he was immune to infection or was not causing a form of the disease himself. The flip side to this belief was the idea that a higher consciousness—the truest and best of human thinking—was equally potentially present in every human soul. In his new writing, Auden hoped to increase his own and others’ awareness of the “Hitler” in all of us as well as the divine.
By now, however, the actual Hitler was out in the world, initiating the bombing of Britain. When the RAF retaliated, he announced over the airwaves, “I have tried to spare the British. They have mistaken my humanity for weakness and have replied by murdering German women and children. If they attack our cities we will simply erase theirs.” All British men in America between twenty-one and thirty-five had been called back to England, though none had yet departed. Since Auden had registered his intention to acquire American citizenship, he was no longer wanted by the British military, though he was now eligible for the American draft. Nevertheless, reports continued to arrive from England of caustic remarks in newspapers and literary journals about the continued absence of Auden, Isherwood, Aldous Huxley, and other British artists.
Cyril Connolly, the editor of a new literary journal, Horizon, had referred to Auden and Isherwood the previous winter as “ambitious young men with a strong instinct of self-preservation, and an eye on the main chance, who have abandoned what they consider to be the sinking ship of European democracy.” This was followed by an expression of concern by Auden’s friend Harold Nicolson, in the Spectator, that the writers’ presence in America might discourage Americans from supporting the fight against Hitler since “four of our most liberated intelligences refuse to identify themselves . . . with those who fight.” Other comments seemed motivated more by panic over Britain’s situation or by personal animosity than by the writers’ absence. George Orwell was quoted as remarking that “Mr. Auden’s brand of amoralism is only possible if you are the kind of person who is always somewhere else when the trigger is pulled.” Verses were published in the newspapers, satirizing the “cowardly” writers’ escape. In June 1940, Sir Jocelyn Lucas raised a Question in the House of Commons about whether the writers who, he claimed, had sought refuge abroad and stated that they would not fight should be stripped of their British citizenship. The suggestion was dropped in the general chaos that ensued when the minister to whom the question was posed confused W. H. Auden with H. W. “Bunny” Auden, a tennis player who was also out of the country.
Auden, like Isherwood, felt embarrassed by the attention, though he acknowledged that some resentment was understandable, given the situation. He even remarked that he considered Connolly’s comment a fair one and insisted that he did not take offense. He did not intend to change his plans at anyone else’s behest, but as George had implied, he did perhaps feel more pressure, as a result of this criticism, to use his presence in America to focus even more intently on his work. He could sense a crisis of some kind mounting in his work and in his personal life—and for Auden, the two were closely intertwined. Though not sure what it was, he was certain it would involve a change, so perhaps a change of domicile was in order as well. It would be a relief, in any case, to share a home with others to whom he did not have to explain any aspect of his private life. He agreed to accompany George up to take a look at the house on Middagh.
By now, the neighbors were accustomed to the sight of the tall, shockhaired poet striding rapidly, cigarette in hand, through the tree-lined streets. George, shorter and softer but with a lively, expressive face that invited inquiry, struggled to keep up. The pink light of sunset reflected off the windows of the mansions facing the harbor, but George hardly noticed as he hastened to fill his friend in on the house’s many advantages.
Finally, rounding the corner of Middagh Street, Auden caught his first glimpse of his future home. It was something of a disappointment. The house appeared rather small, actually, and more dilapidated than George had led him to believe. But when given a tour, Auden began to see how 7 Middagh could become precisely the creative incubator George had in mind. He could once again have the top-floor rooms, with a view of the harbor and the Brooklyn Bridge—a view almost as splendid as the one he enjoyed at his place up the hill. He could still enjoy the lonely sound of ships’ whistles drifting through his rooms. The basement dining room was quite large, with space for a dozen guests or more, and the kitchen was spacious enough to accommodate them all.
And Auden liked George’s idea of trying to stage such an unusual experiment in a house in Brooklyn. George’s appreciation for the pleasantly ridiculous made him an enjoyable companion. Carson McCullers, with her difficult accent and her habit of calling him “Winston,” was a little strange, but there was no denying that both of them believed in the importance of books and literature and would respect his dedication to his work. George happened to be “pro-frog,” whereas Auden was “prokraut,” which might cause friction, but at least, unlike most other Americans, George did not expect a “serious” poet to wear a long face all the time.
In fact, the waterfront at the foot of the hill behind the Middagh Street house was a favorite destination for George and many of his literary friends in pursuit of illicit adventure. Like Kirstein, Auden could only imagine the stories that might arise from the editor’s twenty-four-hour proximity to such a place. In any case, a house such as this one, poised between bourgeois comfort and a district that boasted some of the city’s most unashamed debauchery, could not help but appeal to a poet’s sense of metaphor.
Auden asked George whether Benjamin Britten and his partner, Peter Pears, might be welcome at 7 Middagh. George agreed that of course the musicians could have the first available rooms after Auden, Carson, and George himself had moved in. That simply, the agreement was made.
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3
The house became a ship, slipped its moorings
. . . and after years and years I am again at sea.
—George Davis, 1940
Despite George and Carson’s enthusiasm for the idea of creating a group home in Brooklyn, the house at 7 Middagh Street required a great deal of work. As the two writers realized on further inspection, the furnace was broken, the banisters wobbled, the floors needed sanding, the walls required plaster and paint, and there was something seriously wrong with the plumbing. Although the separate two-room suites on each floor did provide extra privacy, there were no locks on the doors, and the thin partitions promised to broadcast each housemate’s every movement day and night.
Still, these were minor drawbacks, in their view. More important were the large windows framing views of the leafy neighborhood in front of the house and the distant city to the rear, the plaster rosettes on the parlor-floor ceilings, and the carved wooden moldings—plus the enticing promise of personal freedom and intellectual stimulation that came with the lease. George got busy asking around for the names of plasterers while Carson moved her few belongings into her third-floor rooms.
They had decided that, at least while major repairs were in progress, George would take the front half of the top floor, whose large sitting room and small bedroom faced quiet Middagh Street and the walled rear garden of another brownstone across the lane. Auden took the corresponding two rooms in the back, with their view of the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan’s skyscrapers. It was a provocative vista, but there was no danger of its distracting the poet from his work, since the sensitivity of his eyes required him to keep the curtains closed while he worked. As he had written years before in his poem “Letter to Lord Byron”:
For concentration I have always found
A small room best, the curtains drawn, the light on;
Then I can work from nine till tea-time, right on.
Carson, on the other hand, took great pleasure in placing her own writing table directly in front of the large windows of her suite directly below Auden’s. She reveled in the sight of the East River sparkling in the sunlight as she arranged her typewriter, notebooks, pencils, ashtray, cigarette lighter, and china teacup within reach. Shabby as the house was, Carson’s high-ceilinged rooms, soon to be painted Empire green and hung with velvet curtains, seemed like a palace to her. “At last, after all the years of apartment misery I was living in a comfortable, even luxurious house,” she would write. Certainly, it was a far cry from the North Carolina boardinghouse in which she had lived with Reeves, with its plywood partitions so thin that the young couple could never escape the sounds of the sick, wailing baby next door or the arguments, slaps, and weeping of its parents.
It had not been easy to convince Reeves to agree to her decision to move. He resented her abandonment of him at this difficult time in their marriage and did not see why he was not invited to join the group. After all, he knew and liked both George and Wystan Auden, and they enjoyed his company as well. He, too, hoped to write a novel and could benefit from a household designed to facilitate such work. Besides, a group life like the one she described—particularly when run by George Davis—was likely to prove too stimulating for someone as physically frail as Carson. She needed quiet, Reeves insisted, and someone who understood her needs.
It was just the kind of suffocating talk that Carson could not bear, and it only bolstered her determination to begin a new life on Middagh Street. Pointing out how strained their relationship had become, she finally convinced him that a temporary separation would do them both good. On his own, Reeves could perhaps make better progress with his writing or, if he preferred, with finding a job, and Carson would be better able to resume her role as his partner once she had made some headway with her second novel. In the end, Reeves reluctantly helped Carson pack her bags and carry them to Brooklyn. It would not be a complete separation, they agreed. She would visit him in Manhattan, and he could come out to dinner as often as he liked.
Now, a salty breeze wafting in through the windows beckoned to Carson, and she set out to explore her new neighborhood. This was always her first action when moving to a new location. Not only were long daily walks a therapeutic part of her writing process, helping her to sort out her thoughts, but the sights she saw and the people she met never failed to provide new ideas for her writing.
She quickly familiarized herself with Middagh Street, which stretched east for several blocks past a tiny fire station, a red brick parochial school, and a modest candy factory emblazoned with the sign PEAK’S MASON MINTS. Maple trees overhung the sidewalks, their flaming red autumn leaves used by the neighborhood children to build bonfires in the gutters. Carson soon got to know the man living in the house to the left of 7 Middagh, who had agreed to deliver their coal, and the woman to the right, who shared her home with a dozen stray dogs and a pet monkey and who was rumored to be very rich and very stingy. Carson was intrigued to learn that, frail as this elderly woman appeared, she had once been jailed for smashing the windows of a saloon in a temperance riot.
Such local gossip was provided by Mr. Parker, the druggist in the small pharmacy on the first floor of the clapboard house on the corner. He was a shy man with a carefully groomed yellow mustache whom Carson got to know while weighing herself each morning on the pharmacy scale. She had noticed that as she balanced the weights, Mr. Parker would move noiselessly to her side to check the results. He “always gives me a quick little glance,” she wrote, “but he has never made any comment, nor indicated in any way whether he thought I weighed too little or too much.” Carson had already developed a special fondness for him after overhearing through the open windows of his shop his determined efforts to help his uninterested daughter with her schoolwork. Night after night, his patient voice floated down the quiet street—“The square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to . . .”—apparently to no avail.
Mr. Parker passed on to Carson many of the old legends of Brooklyn Heights, a number of which she recorded at her desk for later use. She learned about Love Lane, a narrow alley named for an attractive young woman who shared a house on its corner with her two bachelor uncles. The girl was so charming that suitors lingered longingly outside her window every night, writing poetry on the fence and crowding the sidewalks so that the neighbors hardly had room to pass. The girl was long gone now, but the street name remained.
Middagh Street itself had quite a different history, having been dominated for decades by the legendary Miss Middagh, the last matriarch of the Dutch family that had established a mill on this site in the early eighteenth century. Late in life, Miss Middagh had decided that it was wrong for the streets to bear the names of the most prominent residents, so she began slipping out late at night and tearing down the street signs. Each time the signs were replaced, the opinionated Miss Middagh tore them down again until the city gave up and changed the street names to the fruits Carson saw now—Pineapple, Orange, Cranberry Street, and so on. By the time of her death, Miss Middagh’s name was the only one remaining on the street signs of the North Heights. And so she left this earth a satisfied woman.
Carson appreciated the Middagh family’s choice of a hilltop location for their business and home. Another advantage of the site was its proximity to the sea. Carson loved the sight of seagulls overhead and the sounds of shouting workmen that drifted up from the active wharves and warehouses of the waterfront. “Isn’t it wonderful to live in a neighborhood with fresh salt air!” she would exclaim when she returned home from her wanderings. She was likely to be greeted by the sight of George Davis, still in his bathrobe, sleepily directing the work of a carpenter or painter in the parlor or the narrow front hall. A number of workmen had begun repairs on the house, but as their employers enjoyed sitting down with them for a drink or a chat, they made slow progress. One of them, an Italian-American carpenter whom Carson liked for his habit of whistling arias as he worked, brought a bottle of homemade wine to work one day to celebr
ate the birth of his first son. After they had finished the wine, the carpenter invited Carson to join the festivities at his house at the opposite end of Brooklyn, in Sheepshead Bay. Carson enjoyed meeting his many relatives and neighbors and sampling the local provolone and Italian pastries, along with more of the wine. She was especially taken by the electrician’s grandfather, who “had the face of a charming old satyr,” she wrote, and who said of the new baby, “He is very ugly, this little one. But it is clear that he will be smart. Smart and very ugly.”
Surely, such an experience was worth the delay in getting the stairs fixed. And even if the repairs were taking longer than expected, the house had begun to come together in other exciting ways. George’s former colleagues at Harper’s Bazaar had been thrilled to hear about his new experiment and were quick to show their support. A flood of housewarming gifts arrived from Manhattan in what Carson described as a kind of “multiple bridal party.” The cover illustrator Marcel Vertes sent George watercolors for the walls, Diana Vreeland donated a grand piano for musical evenings in the parlor, and other friends contributed piles of curtains, dishes, and kitchen appliances. A new gramophone arrived as well, allowing George to play selections from his prized collection of French music hall records and Carson her recordings of Schubert and Bach. Meanwhile, George’s own furniture was delivered, and several unused rooms were soon stuffed with mahogany bookcases, glass-fronted cabinets, S-shaped loveseats, oil lamps, gilt-framed mirrors, and an apparently infinite array of unusual American objets d’art for the house once the repairs had been made.
February House Page 9
