Early Frost
In
the early fall of 1912, a blandly handsome, tousle-headed American
schoolteacher arrived in London. Nearing 40, coming without introduction
or much of a plan — except, as he later confessed, “to write and be
poor” — he was making a last attempt to write himself into poetry. It
would have taken mad willfulness to drag his wife and four children out
of their settled New Hampshire life
in a quixotic assault on the London literary scene. Still, he was soon
spending a candlelit evening with Yeats in the poet’s curtained rooms,
having come to the attention of that “stormy petrel” Ezra Pound, who
lauded him in reviews back home. Little more than two years later, the
schoolteacher sailed back, having published his first two books, “A Boy’s Will” (1913) and “North of Boston” (1914). He had become Robert Frost.
The modernists remade American poetry
in less than a decade, but like the Romantics they were less a group
than a scatter of ill-favored and sometimes ill-tempered individuals.
Frost was in most ways the odd man out: He despised free verse, had only
a patchy education and
wrote about country life. He knew the dark and sometimes terrible
loneliness that descended upon stonewalled farms and meager villages.
Looking back on his work, this throwback to Chaucer and Virgil
plaintively asked one of his correspondents, “Doesnt [sic] the wonder
grow that I have never written anything or as you say never published
anything except about New England farms?” (“North of Boston” was
originally titled “Farm Servants and Other People.”)
Though Frost came from Yankee farming stock, his father was a hard-drinking San Francisco
newspaper editor who died young of tuberculosis. The boy was 11 before
he saw the East Coast, where he spent his adolescence working, while not
at school, as a shoe nailer, hotel handyman and mill
assistant-gatekeeper. Even when he eventually lived on a farm, he never
knew “shovel-slavery.” Indeed, until middle age he spent only six years
or so on a farm, mostly raising chickens.
He
had heard, however, the “real language of men,” as Wordsworth called it
— in Frost’s words, sounds “caught fresh from the mouths of people.”
Frost brought the ebb and flux of plain American back into poetry. He
disliked fancy metaphor or decoration (his poems are literature’s answer
to Shaker furniture); but more than any poet since Whitman he devoted
himself to the real gimcrackery and moody flamboyance of the American
tongue. “My conscious interest in people,” he once admitted, “was at
first no more than an almost technical interest in their speech.”
This opening volume of a complete edition of Frost’s letters
meanders from a schoolboy’s love notes (“I have got read a composition
after recess and I hate to offaly”) to the dashed valedictions of the
poet at 45, fleeing a cushy job at Amherst. Generously annotated, it
replaces the selected letters edited by Lawrance Thompson half a
century ago. As he grew older, Frost acquired those two enemies of the
letter writer, a telephone and a secretary, so the edition will require
only three or four volumes more — Eliot, that man of letters who lived
in letters, will need at least 20.
Frost
was a stolid correspondent, apart from the whims of fancy with which he
indulged close friends. He doesn’t have the nervy wit or deeply nuanced
intelligence of Eliot, the panache and bulldozer manner of Pound or
even the finicky authority of Marianne Moore.
Frost’s pronouncements on the “sound of sense” and “vocal reality” may
have proved crucial in explaining himself to himself, but they add
little to the poetics of the last century. Machiavellian calculation, or
deeper-seated insecurity, may explain why he found solace, or
something like solace, in the fawning letters to literary politicians
like Amy Lowell and Louis Untermeyer. Untermeyer was one of the few
correspondents to receive something like the poet’s devotion. Frost
praised many another minor poet to his face, only to slip a knife
between his ribs when his back was turned.
The
most attractive letters record Frost’s adventures as he made his way
into the rough trade of poetry — a man proud, prickly, grateful for
favors soon resented. He fell out with Pound, “that great intellect
abloom in hair,” but elsewhere in England found sympathetic spirits
among the duller if not the dullest versifiers around. Frost had a gift
for the attentions of amiable second-raters, and his letters were
largely taken up with minor littérateurs like Lascelles Abercrombie, F.
S. Flint and Wilfrid Gibson (he thought Gibson a better poet than
Pound), as well as, when he returned to America, a group of
long-forgotten and inoffensive academics. He was fortunate to find
abroad the man who became his closest friend, Edward Thomas, a poet of
greater subtlety and depth than all the other English poets Frost came
to know. Their correspondence was cut short when Thomas was killed at
the Battle of Arras in 1917.
In
his letters, Frost habitually indulged in literary snits and little
bouts of bragging. Not long after his grimly conventional first book,
he wrote, apparently without a smile, “I am one of the most notable
craftsmen of my time.” Yet he could rouse himself to charm, and when he
was struck by something — the sort of farmer, for instance, who might
leave his horse mired in mud for a week — the reader is struck too.
Frost had a poet’s eye for country things and paid equal attention to a
fossil taken from a chalk cliff or the way a hoe was made.
For
Frost’s life, the reader must still turn to Thompson’s three-volume
biography, completed posthumously in 1976 by his research assistant.
Thompson has long been a bête noire among Frost scholars. Though he was
the authorized biographer and spent decades winkling information out of
the poet, his portrait of an American grotesque riven by vanity is a
caricature of a man far more complicated. Though the preface to this new
edition bristles every time Thompson’s biography is mentioned, he
cannot be entirely ignored. Frost was an imperfect father and husband,
who had in his blood the “cuteness” and longheadedness of a Yankee
trader. “I am but a timid calculating soul always intent on the main
chance,” he wrote. There’s no reason to think he wasn’t in earnest.
Frost didn’t much like England, where he found no American news, no cellars, no sun — and, in the lunchrooms, never a glass of water.
The most appealing Frost is the self-mocking man who wanted to go back
to New England “and get Yankier and Yankier,” or the poet who says
fiercely that a “poem is never a put up job.” The meaner-minded Frost
makes snippy comments about the “festering free versters” and refers
cruelly to “some single-bed she professor.” Worse, he could remark, “I
will tell you what I think of niggers,” call a black literary critic a
“duodecaroon” and believe America should have done a better job of
denying blacks any rights. The poet was no more wretched than many —
such slurs are broadcast through the letters of other modernists — but I
wish he were better than his time.
In
almost every way, this new edition is a triumph of scholarly care. It
suffers few of the problems that afflicted the disastrous edition of
Frost’s “Notebooks” (2008), whose editor, Robert Faggen, is one of the
editors here. (My own entanglement with the notebooks required two very
critical reviews.) Comparing the manuscripts of two dozen letters with
the transcripts in this edition, I did find numerous trivial errors,
half a dozen more substantive and the missing page of a letter declared
incomplete — but the standard is high, if short of the “carefully
verified transcripts” promised by the editors.
The
notes are as thorough as most readers could wish, though frequently
repetitive as minor figures are reintroduced for those who don’t like
to use an index. It’s surprising the editors don’t know, for example,
the 19th-century American phrase “and found,” as in Frost’s remark about
a man who “earns from 5 to 6 dollars a week and found,” meaning he
received room and board in addition. Such small derelictions little
distract from the immense labor toward clarity the editors have
performed. If Hercules had merely 12 labors, he was lucky — editors have
thousands.
The
editors hope that this new edition, which has provided hundreds of
letters previously unpublished, will reveal a Frost radically different
from the man in Thompson’s biography — a kinder, gentler Frost, perhaps.
That revised portrait may have to wait. Only a handful of letters exist
from the years before the poet left for England; and in the later years
of this volume there are few to family, few that reveal much about the
inner Frost. Though his oldest son had died of cholera as a boy, most of
Frost’s sorrows lay ahead — the death of his wife in her 60s, the
suicide of his other son, the death of a daughter after childbirth.
Randall
Jarrell long ago recognized the terrifying landscape in which Frost set
his poems and the uncompromising bleakness of his imagination, at least
before age and self-satisfaction settled in. Even his drollery had a
cold edge: Of New Hampshire, he once wrote, “I mean to get back there in
time to freeze to death this winter.” Haggling with editors over the
price of his verse; worried to distraction by his London publisher’s
punitive contract; enraged by his daughter’s Latin teacher at Wellesley,
he was a man others feared to arouse. Yet he risked his job at Amherst
by attacking a popular fellow professor bent on seducing male students.
For all his private flaws, his tragedies large and small, American
literature — and the language itself — owes a profound debt to that
dark, demonic, beguiling figure, Robert Frost.
THE LETTERS OF ROBERT FROST
Volume 1, 1886-1920
Edited by Donald Sheehy, Mark Richardson and Robert Faggen
Illustrated. 811 pp. The Belknap Press/Harvard University Press. $45.
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