When Edna St. Vincent (Millay) Came For A Visit

When Edna St. Vincent (Millay) Came for a Visit

It was a typical Tuesday: slow, after Monday's rush. Only two customers had come in since we had opened two hours earlier. I was sitting at the desk, taking care of some paperwork and considering which stack of new trade-ins to attack when the phone rang. The woman on the other end of the line said she was cleaning out her mother’s things; there were a couple boxes of old books, would I be interested in looking at them for purchase? Yes, I said, when should I expect her?  She said she would come by after lunch, maybe closer to two, and she hung up without saying goodbye.

When she arrived, somewhere between lunchtime and two, she had two small Lowes’ moving boxes, each about half full of books. I glanced at the titles on top; would she prefer to browse while I prepared the offer or come back later in the afternoon? She said she would come back later around three or maybe four. She started to turn, then hesitated, saying, as if to answer a question I had not asked, “My mom was in an assisted living home. These were on the shelf in her room.” Her voice caught, she paused, and then added, “And I don’t want them.” She pushed open the door and walked out, the bell dinging behind her.

I started making an inventory list of the first box: a dozen cheap romance novels, a couple of best sellers, an Oprah book club selection, and a couple miscellaneous fiction books. Nothing exciting. I made a note of what I thought the box was worth.  In the next box were two coffee table photo books – the kind that folks used to have laying out, whether they had visited those places or not – one of England and one of Germany. I set them aside. Next were three history books covering the European theater of World War 2 and a pair of photo books of the war. Odd, I thought, that the same woman who had harlequin romances would have military history books in her small library; those don’t usually go together. I lifted them out of the box.

There was one hardback book left in the box. I lifted the slender, orange colored, cloth-bound hardback out and looked at it. It was obviously old, styled from the early/mid 1900s. The title-less cover of the book had a simple, gold weave around the edge, nothing more. The spine was also gilded with gold weave, and had only two words on it, each in its own box. The top box simply said POEMS; below, in a black box, was the author’s name, standing out as starkly as a name carved into a black granite tombstone: MILLAY.

Edna St. Vincent Millay was a semi-popular poet around the time of the Great Depression. I have been a fan of hers since I was in high school when Mrs. Winnie Karens gave me some of her sonnets to read. Happy to reconnect with an old friend, and less-than-eager to get back to the overflowing stack of books demanding attention, I gave in to the temptation.

I pulled my stool out from under the counter and opened the book of poems. On the title page, in the top right corner, in impeccable, clear penmanship was written, “G. Schaeffer – 1942.” I glanced at the stack of WW2 books at my left; the date made me wonder. And, what did G stand for? Gertrude? Glennis? Maybe Grace, or Gracie?

I turned a few pages of the old book. The edges were reddish orange, but the paper was off-white - perhaps “eggshell” would be how Sherwin Williams would describe it - with only very slight aging along the edge. The book had been read, that was obvious, but it was well cared for. Strangely, the book kept trying to open itself, as if it had a secret to tell me. I placed the open book on the counter and lifted my fingers, then my hands, letting the pages separate and form a slight arch as if the book’s spine had been broken at that point.

As I slid my thumb into the narrow space and lifted gently, the pages rolled upward and to the left until the book lay almost flat. I looked down and saw words I recognized: “Sonnet XXX.” I heard myself murmuring aloud, from memory, not needing to read the text.

Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink,

Nor slumber against the rain…

Along the left and right edges of the pages there were a few slight smudges, as if thumbs had held the book open repeatedly for reading. The caught a slightly masculine scent rising from the page, leathery and smokey, very faint but still present. Was that pipe tobacco? At the bottom of the page, written in large, round, loopy and masculine cursive, was a note to his beloved: “My love will bring me back home to you. Yours, August.” Below was the date: 4 September, 1942.

I began to connect dots in my mind and a picture began to form. Millay’s book of poetry was a gift from August to his beloved Ms. G. – what was her name? – as he prepared to leave for war. He purchased the book at a local bookstore before shipping out. I could imagine his pipe dangling, carefree, from the corner of his mouth, a curl of smoke dancing around his mustache (why a mustache? Why not?) and kissing the side of his cheek, rubbing through his hair, and fading away. Perhaps he had read Millay first, as if they could share an intimate moment when she later read the book in private. Were they married, already, when he set sail? Or was she faithfully waiting for her fiancée to come home? Was his note merely a promise to return safely, or was it also a promise for a marriage to come?  Had  Ms. G held that book open, reading not only Millay’s words but also the promise of her beloved? How many times had she ached to hold him, whole and complete, so they could begin, or resume, their lives as husband and wife? Would the war change him? I imagined her sitting at a bay window, looking out to the east, willing and wishing he would suddenly appear, first a small dot on the horizon, then growing and growing into a man – her man – and she would rush out to his arms.

My reverie was interrupted by the jingle of the bell at the door as a customer entered the store. With a quick trip to the gardening section, a payment, and a hopeful “See you next time,” I was ready to return to Ms. G, Millay and August.

A few more pages had arched themselves upward, again. I helped the pages roll to another poem, revealing yet another mystery. This page had no writing, but it had yellowed significantly compared to the other pages I had viewed. Across the pages were marks where, it appeared, water had dripped, slightly altering the paper’s smooth texture to a raised grain. A hint of vanilla, iris, jasmine and musk rose from the page…was that Chanel No. 5 I was smelling? I started to scan the page and my palm rose to my mouth as I heard myself gasp.  The poem was titled, “Thou Famished Grave.”

Thou famished grave, I shall not fill thee yet.

I cannot starve thee out: I am thy prey
And thou shalt have me; but I dare defend
That I can stave thee off; and I dare say,
What with the life I lead, the force I spend,
I'll be but bones and jewels on that day,
And leave thee hungry even in the end.

My mind completed the picture. Ms. G. had gotten word that her love – was he beau or husband? Either way, the romantic - had died in the war. Although he promised to return, and although Millay said the grave would not be filled, the promises were not enough to keep the enemy’s weapons of war at bay. Where Sonnet XXX was read and treasured with its words and note of promise and hope, this page, and the famished grave, were marked with her tears of pain and loss. Where the Sonnet had been kept closed and protected, as if it were too much to leave it open and the hope fade, the sheer pain of the loss was too much to keep entrapped, preventing her from closing the poem. It, and she, aged slowly…

I wiped a tear from my eye as I imagined Ms. G sitting at her writing desk, tea cup full but cold, with the book of poems laying there – one page, once filled with hope but now mocking her pain; one page, once just a poem, now a final statement of irony as, somewhere, perhaps even in an unknown place, her beloved lay in the grave. I could see the tears that ran, large and wet, from her eyes, splashing on the open book below as she stared eastward, again, her beloved never to return.

I closed the book and set it aside on the counter, separate from the other books, while I stared out the window, gathering my thoughts. Silly me, I thought, letting my imagination run so wildly while there was work to be done. I finished figuring up my buy offer and went back to my desk to try to work, but I kept looking at the book, wondering about the fate of Ms. G and August. Finally, somewhere between 3 and 4 o’clock, she came through the door. “Do you have a price for me?” she asked. I touched the stack of books and gave her my price. She nodded; that sounded fine to her, but what about the orange book?

I smiled. “You said these were your mom’s books. I think this one might be special. You might want to keep this one. May I ask a silly question?” A nod. “Did your mother wear Chanel No. 5?” A quizzical look, but another nod. I motioned her to a stool at the counter. When she sat, I showed her “Sonnet XXX,” then the well-worn poem. “It’s a slow day. Why don’t you tell me about your her…”

And she did.