Read Robert Lowell: A Biography Online
Authors: Ian Hamilton
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Personal Memoirs, #General
During the summer and early fall of 1975 Lowell had prepared a
Selected
Poems
for the press; and he also had a book of his prose essays which he hoped to publish under the title
A
Moment
in
American
Poetry.
Over thirty new poems had been finished and he was
thinking
that this would be “about enough” for a new book; “I’ll keep writing till November, and come out in the Spring.”
56
1
. R.L. to Frank Bidart, n.d. (Houghton Library).
2
.
The
Dolphin
(New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1973), P. 64.
3
. R.L. to Elizabeth Hardwick, October 1, 1971.
4
. R.L. to Philip Booth, 1972.
5
. Caroline Blackwood, interview with I.H. (1979).
6
. R.L. to Blair Clark, n.d.
7
. Ibid.
8
. R.L. to Elizabeth Hardwick, May 21, 1973. On the Maine property, Hardwick explains (in an interview with I.H. in 1982): “The property was left in its entirety to me by Miss Winslow. Cal had no claims at all on it, but I always felt it was left to me for reasons of practicality and was not meant as a rebuke to Cal. When we were together, he and I decided that I would sell part of it in order to improve the barn on the water where he worked. That was done. When we were divorced, I wanted to live in the barn as more suitable for me and Harriet. I had to sell the house on the Commons in order to make a house of the barn. Under Maine law, Cal, as my former husband, was required to sign. Only his signature was required, but he refused for a good while, seeming to think the signature indicated that indeed the property had been left to both of us. I explained, the Maine lawyer explained, but he would not for a long time accommodate and I almost lost the sale of the other house. Behind this was, in my view, his sadness, not his greed, that Cousin Harriet, much loved by both of us, had done what she did.”
9
. R.L. to Elizabeth Hardwick, May 26, 1973.
10
. Calvin Bedient, “Visions and Revisions—Three New Volumes by America’s First Poet,”
New
York
Times
Book
Review,
July 29, 1973, pp. 15 ff.
11
. Jonathan Raban, interview with I.H. (1979).
12
. Stephen Yenser, “Half Legible Bronze,”
Poetry
123 (February 1974), pp. 304–9.
13
. Paul Ramsey, “American Poetry in 1973,”
Sewanee
Review
82 (Spring 1974), pp. 393–405.
14
. William Pritchard, “Poetry Matters,”
Hudson
Review
26 (Autumn 1973), pp. 579–97.
15
. Adrienne Rich to R.L., June 19, 1971 (Houghton Library).
16
. Adrienne Rich,
American
Poetry
Review,
September-October 1973.
17
. Marjorie Perloff, “The Blank Now,”
New
Republic,
July 7 and 14, 1973, p. 24.
18
. R.L. to Blair Clark, July 31, 1973.
19
. Robert Giroux, interview with I.H. (1979).
20
. R.L. to Elizabeth Hardwick, July 12, 1973.
21
. Ibid., July 16, 1973.
22
. R.L. to William Alfred, August 31, 1973.
23
. R.L. to Blair Clark, July 31, 1973.
24
. R.L. to William Alfred, August 31, 1973.
25
. Ibid.
26
. Ibid.
27
. The texts of poems quoted on pp. 436–38 are as they first appeared in
New
Review
1, no. 1 (April 1974). They were revised for book publication in
Day
by
Day
(New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1977).
28
. R.L. to Blair Clark, February 22, 1974.
29
. Ms (Houghton Library).
30
. Ibid.
31
.
Day
by
Day
(New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1977), p. 27.
32
. R.L., “The Poetry of John Berryman,”
New
York
Review
of
Books
May 28, 1964.
33
. R.L. to Peter Taylor, May 13, 1974.
34
.
Day
by
Day,
p. 38.
35
. R.L. to William Alfred, May 20, 1974.
36
. R.L. to Peter Taylor, July 13, 1974.
37
. Ibid.
38
. Ibid., October 9, 1974.
39
.
New
Review
2, no. 20 (November 1975). Revised for publication in
Day
by
Day
(1977).
40
. Ibid.
41
. R.L. to Elizabeth Hardwick, October 13, 1974.
42
. Ibid., December 13, 1974.
43
. R.L. to Peter Taylor, n.d.
44
. R.L. to Frank Bidart, December 14, 1974.
45
. Caroline Blackwood, interview with I.H. (1979).
46
. P. R. Brass to Curtis Prout, February 5, 1975 (Houghton Library).
47
. Ibid.
48
. Robert Giroux, interview with I.H. (1982).
49
. Robert Silvers, interview with I.H. (1981).
50
. Curtis Prout to R.L., May 1975 (Houghton Library).
51
. R.L. to Peter Taylor, July 1, 1975.
52
. Ibid., July 21, 1975.
53
. R.L. to Frank Parker, September 11, 1975.
54
. R.L. to Blair Clark, September 11, 1975.
55
. R.L. to Frank Parker, September 11, 1975.
56
. R.L. to Frank Bidart, August 7, 1975.
It was agonizing to watch. That was the saddest. It would start with a feeling in his spine. And he’d suddenly say, “Honey, Christ, I’m going to have an attack.” It’s as if you said to me in the middle of a conversation that you were going to have an attack. But he would say: “I can feel it. In the spine. It’s a funny, creepy feeling. It’s coming up the spine from the lower back, up.” Once at Milgate he said he was going to have an attack. And we had one hope: that if he had a massive Valium injection, it might stop—you know, that thing where they do it right in the vein. So I said: “Let’s get right on the train and go to Dr. Brass” [their London doctor]. When we set off he was talking a lot, but he was making sense. By the time we reached Victoria, he wasn’t. He’d gone, flipped. I got him to Redcliffe Square and Dr. Brass came round and gave him the massive Valium. He was there all night giving him more Valium—he said that people have their nose off and their leg amputated under the doses he’d given Cal. But Cal was still walking around talking and waving his arms. And Dr. Brass said, “That man is like a bull.” He’d never seen anything like it. But in an hour he’d gone—between Milgate and Victoria station.
1
In November 1975 Lowell was admitted to a private hospital called the Priory in Roehampton, a south London suburb; for many of Lowell’s London friends, this was the first time that they had
experienced
one of his attacks; indeed, for several of them, it was as if literature was eerily transmuting itself back into life. The tyrant delusions, in particular, were disconcerting; after all, there was nothing much in the “mad” poems to prepare the unversed visitor for the daunting impact of the poet’s actual madness.
I went to visit Cal one afternoon and met one of those gangly mental patients hanging around in the corridors. I asked him where Mr. Lowell
was, and he said, “Oh, you mean the Professor. He’s going around with his piece of steel. He’s got this very important piece of steel.” Anyway, I found Cal wandering out on the lawn, carrying what looked like a piece of motor car engine, or part of a central heating system, and Cal was standing there holding it up and saying, “The Chief Engineer gave me this. This is a present from the Chief Engineer.” I said, “Oh yes.” And he said, “You know what this is? This is the Totentanz. This is what Hitler used to eliminate the Jews.” I said, “Cal, it’s not. It’s a piece of steel. It’s nothing to do with the Jews.” And then this awful sad, glazed look in his eyes, and he said something like “It’s just my way. It’s only a joke.”
2
But it was not so easy to laugh off the tyrannical elements in Lowell’s own behavior: “I think it was only when he was in hospital that he ever stood up to his full height. He sort of grew. And there was also a sort of ferocity. If one disagreed with him, he would begin to blaze. He could be very frightening.”
3
Certainly, Caroline
Blackwood
found him so, and over the next three months she came close to despair. After Lowell had spent two wild, oppressive weeks in the Priory, he discharged himself. Blackwood was taking a course of acupuncture for a back complaint that had troubled her for many years, and Lowell decided that his problem could be similarly treated. Blackwood’s doctor reluctantly agreed to have a try, and after a single session Lowell pronounced himself entirely cured.
Indeed, for a time, it did seem that the needles had worked
miracles
. Lowell spent December at Milgate, seemingly much calmed. Before the end of the year, though, he was admitted once again to Greenways, the hospital that had treated him in July 1970. And on January 4 he discharged himself from Greenways. At this point, with the acupuncture “miracle” in mind, Blackwood decided that she had had enough of orthodox medicine, and for the next three weeks Lowell was treated at Redcliffe Square by a strange
combination
of homeopathy and acupuncture; nurses were engaged and Blackwood retired to Milgate with the children—she would
commute
from there to London.
I was so desperate at that point I would have gone to a miracle worker. But my heart sank when the doctor came round with these ridiculous little pills. Here was Cal, this enormous man with these enormous problems. You’ve seen homeopathic pills—they’re absolutely minute. You just couldn’t believe they could work on such a huge physique.
4
A few entries from the logbook kept by Lowell’s nurses during these three weeks provide a chastening view of “the Professor” as mere patient. In the functional jottings of his professional custodians, he becomes a humbled, pitiable figure—a huge child to be watched over night and day. The notebook is titled “Mr Robert Howell,” and the General Instructions read as follows:
Professor Lowell discharged himself from Greenways. His Dr. is Dr. Lederman who is very helpful. The professor must not be left alone at any time. The day nurse must go out with him and the night nurse must sit in his room. He must not be allowed to touch alcohol in any form.
Don’t leave him alone to go shopping. He is very untidy and one has to clear up all the time. He likes orange juice and drinks gallons of milk but is a little sketchy about other things. He does like soup and toasted crumpets. He is always mislaying his cigarette holder and lighter. Smokes incessantly—
Small hints on professor’s behaviour. Has claimed to have swallowed Dettol. Has put hair lacquer in pubic area producing rash. Has put olive oil in orange juice.
Don’t leave anything at all doubtful lying about.
5
Most of the day-to-day entries are to do with diet, homeopathic pills and mixtures, visits from the acupuncturist. During the nights Lowell is regularly reported as “Restless and did not sleep for long intervals.” Now and then a note of mild alarm is sounded: “
Visited
Westminster Abbey briefly and returned home 3.30 p.m. No apparently harmful effect.” (As a result of this visit, Lowell
decided
he wanted to change his nationality so that he could be in Poets’ Corner.) “Had lunch with literary agent and three others at l’Escargot in Greek Street. Was told not to drink anything but had some white wine.” (At l’Escargot, Lowell tried to enlist help from the waiters and from strangers lunching at adjoining tables—help in compiling an “anthology of world poetry.” He told them that he was king of Scotland but that the anthology’s selection process would be wholly democratic.) “Left flat
unaccompanied
in taxi for Portobello Rd. without waiting for Miss Conway. Dr. Lederman informed. (7.30 a.m.); Professor Lowell
returned
from
Portobello Road at 10.20 a.m. Very flushed and seemed
over
delighted
with his purchases of books, etc.” (Among his purchases that day was a large knife, soon itself to feature in a Report by Lowell’s night nurse: “He pointed a knife at me—joking he said—a funny joke.”)
And so it went on for fifteen days. On January 21, though, he was readmitted to Greenways. Caroline Blackwood remembers his final forty-eight hours at home as involving “every sort of horror,” and it is easy to see why. The nurses, however, icily recorded the events as follows:
9 a.m. Rather tired and drowsy during morning. Had small amount of breakfast. Dr Lederman phoned.
10 a.m. Asked for pt. to have 2) Orphenidrine.
12 a.m. To Harley Str. Very drowsy in taxi—for acupuncture.
1.30 p.m. When leaving taxi (I had to pay taxi-driver as Prof. Lowell had forgotten his wallet) he slipped away.
3.35 p.m. Returned in company of a friend (later Prof Lowell said he was a director of plays). He said he had found the professor in a pub and he had had an amount to drink. Patient did not appear in any distress, and not noticeably drunk. (Had had lunch in Hamburger Heaven).
4.30 p.m. Friend left after reading poems to professor and
conversing
.
4.45 p.m. Lady Caroline came to see her husband.
5 p.m. Dr Lederman informed of Professor’s drinking and said not to give him any further sedation.
8 p.m. Dr Lederman gave acupuncture.
8.30 Had a bath
9.30 p.m. Quite normal. Walking around the flat. Smoking a lot.
10.00 p.m. Dr Lederman phoned (prescribes medication)
11.00 p.m. Gone off to sleep.
1.00 a.m. Awake and walking around. Drinking lots of juice and coffee (medication given)
5.00 a.m. Awake and restless, (more medication given) Slept until 7.30
a.m. Got dressed by himself and went out with me to buy the papers.
8.30 a.m. Professor got undressed and went back to bed.
9 a.m. Dr Lederman rang (prescribes different medication) and asked for Lady Caroline to encourage as many visitors as possible to visit the Professor. Said Prof not to go to acupuncture.
12 Noon. But pt. wanted to go to Harley St. with Lady Caroline. Not so restless during morning. Returned from acupuncture.
1 p.m.–2 p.m. Slept.
2 p.m. Had consomme and toast and orange juice and coffee. Up to lounge. Continues to be extremely untidy in appearance and dirty in habits. Smoking incessantly, but appears calmer and not so agitated.
3 p.m. Took the bread knife and started taking strips off the walls. Lady Caroline informed Dr Lederman. G.P. will be coming. Not violent or difficult to manage but insisting on taking bread knife.
3.30 p.m. Dr Brass came and gave valium injection.
3.30 p.m.–5 p.m. Pt. slept.
5 p.m. Prof rang psychiatrist (a different one from the one who was attending him before). Dr Brass will probably bring psychiatrist to see Professor. To be put into Greenways.
5.30 p.m. Had a bath. Spray prescribed by Dr Brass applied to areas where he had shampooed himself with hair lacquer.
5.30–7 p.m. Resting quietly. Had a bottle of milk.
7 p.m. Dr Benaim (psychiatrist) rang and will get in touch with Dr Brass.
6.30–8 Slept.
7 p.m. Had plate of lentil soup and toast
8 p.m. Appears cheerful
That night Lowell slept longer than on almost any previous night recorded in the nurses’ logbook. At 7
A.M
. on the following day he “got dressed and went out to buy newspapers. Behaviour quite normal.” This is the final entry in the logbook. Later on that same day Lowell returned to Greenways. Again, though, Blackwood was haunted by the fear that he would be “let out too soon.” It was all too easy for him to “escape” from Greenways, and after one or two alarms, Blackwood decided that she would have to have him legally “committed”—and committed, moreover, to a hospital far enough from London for her to feel safe from the threat of a surprise appearance. The hospital was St. Andrews in Northampton, some sixty-odd miles from London, and Lowell was taken there by
ambulance
towards the end of January 1976. In the poem “Home,” Lowell writes poignantly about one of Blackwood’s visits: there will always be some sense of desertion when a loved one disappears “round the bend,” some sense of “
You
chose
to
go
/where
you
knew
I
could
not
follow:
at visiting hours, you could experience
my sickness only as desertion …
Dr. Berners compliments you again,
“A model guest … we would welcome
Robert back to Northampton any time,
the place suits him … he is so strong.”
When you shuttle back chilled to London,
I am on the wrong end of a dividing train—
it is my failure with our fragility.
If
he
has
gone
mad
with
her,
the
poor
man
can
’
t
have
been
very
happy,
seeing
too
much
and
feeling
it
with
one
skin-layer
missing.
6
Lowell spent only two weeks in St. Andrews. In mid-February, he wrote to Frank Bidart:
So good to hear your voice. I had just been talking to Lizzie, and felt a rush of health. My recovery has been easy in most ways, but I am weighed down by the new frequency of attacks. How can one function, if one is regularly sick. Shades of the future prison. But all’s well for the present. The doctors differ somewhat but are optimistic. So am I. We sit by the fire paying bills. Caroline has written three chapters of a novel. I’ve written a short heart-felt poem.
7
On March 4 Lowell wrote a rather shamefaced and gloomy letter to Peter Taylor, who had visited Britain during the later days of Lowell’s attack: “I got well shortly after your visit and wish to god it had been sooner so that you would have been spared my antics. However now I am the most halting and tedious person on earth.”
8
To Blair Clark, on the same day, he writes:
I finally deciphered the crucial word “tricky” in your lithium warning. I think you mean the blood has to be taken every month or so to check the amount of lithium in the system. I’ve been doing that, though hating the blood needle. However, the air is full of rumours against lithium, hard to check on because it is almost a universal faith with English doctors. It’s the preventative effectiveness that shakes me, I can’t really function against two manic attacks in one year.
This one was drawn out, but not too bad. I’ve been home a month now, rather downlooking at first, then thawing, all the while writing with furious persistence.
Outside the sun is shining. Harriet is arriving tonight. A coal and
wood fire warms the large bright-window room, and we swim along happily writing and rewriting.
9
And, in a P.S. to this, he writes: “Tell me if you come across anything more detailed on lithium. I am trying to find a substitute.”