all my love,
Cal
* * *
We still have no house.
274. Robert Lowell to Mrs. Elizabeth Lowell
Milgate Park, Bearsted, Maidstone, Kent
July 16, 1973
Dearest Lizzie:
I enclose my check for the book-shipping. I’m guessing at the cost from memory, but suppose this is enough. If not, I’ll mail more. I have a notice of the books[’] arrival in England.
I have been under a cloud thinking about you this week. The publicity is very poisonous; I think I should have have foreseen it more clearly. Except for Miss Perloff, they are what one might have anticipated. She can hardly make a statement without some erroneous and hurting inference. I fear she has brooded on us for a too/ long [a] time.
I can’t defend myself too much, or anyway shouldn’t at this moment if I could. Nothing in the books was dishonestly intended. There’s I feel/ something febrile, hard to avoid feeling oneself. So it seems, in America. about my American publication./ Here it is just another book of poetry. I think I am living through many of your feelings. I suffer.
Love,
Cal
275. Harriet Lowell to Mr. Robert Lowell
[Telegram]
[Amsterdam]
[received 17 July 1973]
MR ROBERT LOWELL 80 REDCLIFFE SQUARE LONDON/SW10/ENGLAND
ARRIVING LONDON ON 20TH 1.55 FLIGHT 127 KLM
HARRIET LOWELL
276. Robert Lowell to Robert Giroux
Milgate Park, Bearsted, Maidstone, Kent, England
July 18, 1973
Dear Bob:
I don’t know where the business with Lizzie will go to.130 After the divorce our relations were as good as one deserved. For the last month or so we were having a complicated unimportant little dispute about Caroline signing a quitclaim to the Maine property. On the same day as your letter, I had one in her old delirious style (I had said something about being sorry to have nothing left from the past except my grandfather’s gold watch and a few books) rhetorically offering to give me “everything.” I think what she says about her feelings is more or less true. What most set her off was the Perloff review, published two days later than her letter to you.
On the 7th, my Cousin Devie Meade called up saying that Lizzie was suicidal. Later that night she called saying the seizure was passing. I talked to Lizzie, Bob Silvers, Mary McCarthy. For a week I’ve heard nothing and have a feeling things are better. She is supposed to be staying with Mary in Maine—the best thing she could do perhaps.
Of course I can’t clear myself from one angle: publishing “versions” of her letters (I hope no reviewer will call them Imitations). They are made up of a mixture of quotes, improvisation, paraphrase. The revelation[,] particularly in the glare of reviews, must be is shocking, but the portrait is very careful and affectionate, the essence of her charm and bravery, her own words[,] humor and sharpness … out of the outpouring of her actual letters and conversation. The number of sentences quoted is a fraction of the whole Dolphin, though to me very clear and wanted.
I think this will blow off without a lawsuit—who knows? We did become very friendly again after the divorce. I have nothing left really to pay for a lawsuit; any further wrangle would be a tragedy for Harriet, Lizzie and me. The letters are the legal, arguing problem—the real trouble for Lizzie is the picture of Caroline … the two things combine. I did everything I could to make my book inoffensive kind without killing it.
The best reviews here are on a higher level than the American ones so far—their technical suggestions are almost more galling than the hints grin of scandal. I wonder if you could send the following to The New Republic (under your signature or the Firm’s, because I mustn’t pour my own fuel on the fire).
The lines, “from the|dismay of my old world to the blank|now” are misquoted by Professor Perloff who also flaunts them for her title The Blank Now. The lines actually are “From the dismay of my old world to the blank|new.” The tone and meaning have been lost by changing the letter e.
I am asking Karl Miller to airmail you the Ricks review, it’s [a] kind of lawyers summation of the defense in a difficult but just case.131 It’s not meant for court of course.
Well, I pray none of us get further entangled. Harriet is arriving in two days, greedy for London.
As ever gratefully,
Cal
277. Harriet Lowell and Robert Lowell to MRS. ROBERT LOWELL
[Telegram]
[Maidstone, Kent]
[n.d. but July 20, 1973?]
MRS ROBERT LOWELL 15 WESTSIXTYSEVENST NEWYORKCITY HERE SAFE LOVE HARRIET AND CAL
278. Elizabeth Bishop to Elizabeth Hardwick
Sixty Brattle Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts 02138
July 20th, 1973
Dear Elizabeth:
I hope you won’t think it intrusive or impertinent of me to write you a note … I have been absolutely appalled at the stupid, stupid reviews of Cal’s—well, “trilogy” I suppose it is. Particularly that Marjorie Perloff’s, whoever she is—cruel as the poems are, I think she has deliberately misinterpreted them—as I’m sure you see, too. (I’ve seen only that one and Time, Newsweek, & the daily Times—)132 Bill and I talked on the telephone yesterday and he said he’d talked to you and thought you were feeling better, possibly,—I myself tried to telephone you last Thursday133 and again on Wednesday,134 but the line seemed to be busy. Anyway—this is just to send you all the sympathy I can and to say that awful as it is I am sure that anyone’s, everyone’s, sympathy is entirely with you. You’ve always been notably brave and strong and so I hope those qualities will come to your rescue again—(/and stupid reviews—even cruel books—do fade away fairly soon)./
As I think you may know, I did my damndest to stop Cal’s writing a lot of that—in fact after my letters (that were hell to write) he did change some a few/ things around for the better—whether because of them or not I don’t know. I think a good many of his old friends did exactly the same thing … But—nothing could stop him, obviously. Please believe I really grieve for you and I do hope things will soon be better—
Faithfully,
Elizabeth
279. Robert Lowell to Robert Giroux
Milgate Park, Bearsted, Maidstone, Kent, England
July 26, 1973
Dear Bob: Dear Old Bob (You might guess from this that I have just been reading the Bostonians by James)[.]135 We’ve just had a visit from Harriet and her friend Cathy and they are now bicycling through the English countryside and will be back in two days. We didn’t of course go into this controversy, but talked merrily enough on most other personal things such as the drama of packing the bikes under Lizzie’s “supervision.” Lizzie’s off today to Lake Como.
I’ve asked Charles to send you offprints of the more interesting English reviews including Ricks. They are much more enthusiastic and even seem about another book. I’m sick of the American formula of “America’s greatest poet,” then slamming the books, then praising the language—tho I guess being called America’s worst poet with an uncertain command of English would be worse.
Lizzie’s letter reads to me as if a lawyer had looked it over. On the same day she mailed me one (written many times) in the same tone but irrational and incoherent[.] About the letters, the ones you named136 are based [on] real letters and several more—also at random I quote from actual conversation and telephone calls—there are several in For Lizzie and Harriet previously printed in Notebook. Lizzie wasn’t shown the Dolphin, but she read quantities of it when I was staying in my study at Christmas 1970.137 Almost all the letters except for the woodchuck quote are from that period.138 Is her use of the word shown the advice of a lawyer? On the other hand her reviews and public writing are much more carefully phrased than her talk and letters of the same moment. I have a strong unsupported hunch that presently the furor will die down. God knows, I didn’t mean to show her up or satirize. I trust (because we must) time
and distance.
Affectionately,
Cal
* * *
PS. Our trouble at the moment is still no place to stay at Harvard, tho everyone is looking.
280. Elizabeth Hardwick to Elizabeth Bishop
[15 West 67th Street, New York, N.Y.]
July 27, 1973
Dear Elizabeth: Your letter was very kind and I was very moved that you took the time to write me. I have felt truly awful about all of this—somehow it has hurt me as much as anything in my life. I was anxious about the books from what I knew, but I did not expect what I found. And in the end, after having I guess some idea of what was behind Cal’s need to do this, it seemed so sad that the work was, certainly in that part that relies upon me and Harriet, so inane, empty, unnecessary. I cannot understand how three years of work could have left so many fatuities, indiscretions, bad lines still there on the page. That breaks my heart, for all of us.
I am going to Europe tonight and will be back the end of August. I know I will gradually feel better. What can one do? I loved seeing you and hearing you at the Y; seeing everyone connected with you at the party. I like reading you, too, and always tremble at the sight of a new poem. May there be some soon.
Have a good summer, be in as good health as medicine, love, luck can give you. With gratitude,
Love,
Elizabeth
281. Elizabeth Hardwick to Mary McCarthy
[Bellagio Center, Rockefeller Foundation, Bellagio, Italy]
August 14, 1973
Dearest Mary: I am sure you and Jim are happily in the noble mansion, together at last. I missed some of your Watergate articles—the last I saw was “Exit Mutt, Enter Jeff,” a wonderful piece of writing and observation.139 All of your watergating was much admired among everyone I saw in Rome.140 It was a good idea to go and there did turn out to be nothing at all like what you tried to do, even if of course there couldn’t be anything in the press like what you would inevitably, naturally write.
I went to Rome earlier than I planned and tried Carmen’s141 phone without response. Barbara E. was there and Gore142 entertained, wined and even more dined us, and then we all drove off to Ravello, up a thousand “scali” to his villa for a long weekend, a boat trip to Capri, and then here in Bellagio. I am feeling rather low, even more so than before I came. The villa, all of its luxuries known to you from Hannah, seems to me like the most beautiful, expensive hospital in the world, and I suppose I am lucky to be here. I can’t seem to write anything, but I have read a good deal, go swimming and walking, and with everything possible given freely to one, all cares, all burdens lifted, I think this is the best place to be depressed in, among the pines and views and sunsets. I am sure I will be recovered when I return on the 29th.
How glad I am to have gone ahead with Castine—I am merely taking on faith that my barn is “going ahead” against all experience. I don’t at all like spending the summer abroad. I hate rented houses, without books, records, anything except the place itself. And, more important to me, I adore Castine. So I am already in one August dreaming of the next. I don’t know what Harriet’s plans will be, just when I start teaching, what my bank account will show; but when I return I would like a few days amongst the fogs and folk and will call you about the possibility.
No mail ever arrives here, causing me uneasiness and adding to the hospital feeling I secretly have—only from my inner condition, not from the play-place itself. So [do] not give a thought that a word should be posted. It couldn’t possibly get through the postal clog of Italy until Christmas.
What an extraordinary collection of dull people are assembled here. Strangely torpid, aging academics from at home and [the] U.K.; sly, dead eyes, darting away from an idea; envious sighs, and as much intellectual vivacity as a woodchuck.143 And the wives, of all sizes, yet somehow one size in their heads! They mutter about typing His manuscripts, and they have not made one single demand upon themselves, whether of mind or body, and go forth without any effort or artifice as if they were dogs adopted by their professore. They are mostly kindly, but there is this thorough acceptance of their nature and they seem to have lived in a world without mirrors. Needless to say the only two women one can talk to at all, and also the only two given to any “dressing” have Ph.D’s in their own right. It is a perturbation—the laziness of wives.
I am thinking again, “re-thinking,” as our conversations run here—of the old American-Italian colony, or Anglo-Italian. The villas, the gardens, the cultivation, in all its aspects, the special discipline of the mornings, the walks, the visitors in their time-slot, the ritual. Books written, trying to connect Italian culture and English studies, English language. I have been thinking that the ritual discipline of the exiled rich is a particular thing—not like the discipline of Flaubert or George Sand. It lacks the Bohemianism, the driven, the exorbitant perhaps, and is a dedication of a smoother, more worldly sort. I am reading Santayana’s autobiography144 again and would like, if my own dog-like torpor could lift, to write some thoughts about the matter.
Much love, dearest two, and all greetings to my friends. I long to return and when I do your 326 phone will ring from me.
Ever,
Lizzie
282. Robert Lowell to Mrs. Elizabeth Lowell
Milgate Park, Bearsted,
Maidstone, Kent
August 24, [1973]
Dearest Lizzie:
Yesterday the books arrived after waiting fuming for ages at the customs. I made room on my shelves and waited all day in anxiety as if for a distant person, uncertain of coming. All came picked as if I had had our library in front of me to choose from. No error except two Loeb Sophocles/ classics volume I,145 but that was my error first in buying them. Now that I’m old and scatter-minded, I constantly buy things I have. Thanks for taking so much accurate pains.
Harriet and Cathy had a pleasant visit here, at least for us. I took them to Jonathan’s Seagull at Chichester146 (more hours of travel almost than flying the ocean)[.] At dinner with Irene Worth she wrote a note saying that Harriet had a prophetic beauty. Then we had trouble locating the group, and for a day were in a confusion without plans, except for aimless ones like buying tent and staying on the Vondel Park.147 All came out right, tho I imagine the trip was a sweat—five companions, a boy of 14 who looked 12, a boy of 16 who looked 14, and a girl who kept saying everything drove her crazy, and Mr. Karp.
We will arrive on the 7th, and our address is 18 Maple St. Brookline care of Connell. Tell Harriet that this afternoon, in an unused drawer, something turned up I thought long lost, a picture of her fearfully peering and clutching Teddy in Trinidad with the Walcotts’ son behind her.148 Give her my love. I will call soon.
My love to you—shall I say as always.
Love,
Cal
283. Robert Lowell to Harriet Lowell
Milgate Park, Bearsted, Maidstone, Kent, Eng.
August 26, 1973
Dearest Harriet:
I have been imagining you and Cathy for many days now exhaustedly biking winding military roads, the kind in which you end up after hours of work some twenty feet higher than where you started. Then developing Caroline’s Chichester illness, then losing your group, then the Karps disappearing into Dublin spending the fees for your trip on pubs and Irish watercolors. As I write, you are coming to the end, and this letter will arrive in New York about when you do.
Genia and Ivana have come back from camp tanned and matured somewhat—Genia talking much more slowly, and Ivana talking much, much more. Sheridan talks just the same, except that the other morning asked what he had broken, he said, “egg cup.” Natalya shouts when she wants to say something like, “I don’t want a purple door to my bedroom.”
So, another summer. Just ten days ago, we finally got an American house, 18 Maple St. Brookline. We are in a mess of packing, school, visa plans. We will arrive on the seventh. England seems populated with weary American professors booking home to teach. I see that I am
wild to taste America again, even though I fear Nixon will last it out. It’s the leaving and the settling (the uncertainty of whom and what we will see) that hurts. I suppose coming back to England in due time will be like rest, a vacation.
I loved seeing you and making Cathy’s acquaintance. She is a good friend to you, and (despite appearances?) a good influence. I’ll take you both/ out to dinner in New York. You must come to Brookline. All I can remember about our house, (there were so many others we didn’t get,) is that it has three bathrooms and a crib, a washer and no drier. There must be room.
So glad the bikes didn’t have to be loaded on a plane. I was pleasantly sad when you left as always. Give my love to Sumner and Nicole and Mother.
Love,
Daddy
284. Adrienne Rich to Elizabeth Hardwick
[Unknown location]
[n.d. but summer? 1973]
Dearest E.— I’m still feeling bloodyminded about those poems149—& think of Ibsen’s When We Dead Awaken for the 100,000th time.150 When 2 people have had something together, however difficult & painful, it is not the right of one to choose to “use” it in this fashion. I think people are ultimately more important than poems (I know you do too!)[.]
However ultimately I think all that will last of this is a sour taste in the mouth—many mouths.
It’s strange that women artists have not seemed to need to use other people in quite the same way as men, in order to create—at all events the best ones.
I don’t know that this is ethical at all: but if Bob is looking for a reviewer for Diving … I wonder if he’s thought of Nancy Milford? (Did you see her excellent review of Juliet Mitchell in PR)?151
The Dolphin Letters, 1970-1979 Page 37
