I had brought with me to New York became noticeably thinner and more
sickly looking. Clearly, I must do something--and soon. It was but
natural, therefore, that I should think of book reviewing, in which I
had had well over a year’s experience on the _Argonaut_. I remembered
a letter from the magazine’s editor, Sidney Corwyn, _To Whom It May
Concern_; and I decided that it might concern the editors of the New
York reviewing sections. The first one whom I approached was Robert
Jermain Cole, a gentle and sensitive being, then book editor of the
old _Herald_, a job in which he would not remain much longer. (Years
later I was to be briefly in touch with him again, when he wrote from
Paris to send me some poems for my magazine _Wings_ shortly after its
establishment in 1933.) Cole received me pleasantly; glanced over my
letter _To Whom It May Concern_; scrutinized several clippings of my
reviews from the _Argonaut_; and then, to my boundless delight, made
the first dent in the solid wall surrounding me ever since my arrival
in New York. He reached into one of the crowded bookshelves behind him,
pulled out a huge tome, and suggested, “Maybe you’ll let me have six
hundred words on this?”
“Copy due on Thursday,” he went on, as, after profuse thanks, I turned
to leave.
This, as it happened, was only the beginning. Before long, as will
appear a little later, I was reviewing books for other media also; was
writing articles (when I could get them assigned to me) for the Sunday
_Herald_ and other publications; and was interviewing for _Success
Magazine_.
The connection with _Success_ (an “inspirational” magazine that was
to prove a notable failure, and was to be followed by a new failure
called _The New Success_) would not have come to me except for my
poetic interests. The dean of American poets at that time, a man whose
work I greatly admired (as I still do) was Edwin Markham; and through
some mutual acquaintance I had obtained the one letter of personal
introduction that brought me much except gainless footwork. Having
written Markham at his home in Staten Island, I was invited to visit
him on a specified Sunday afternoon; and you may be sure that, even had
my engagements been innumerable (which was far from the case), nothing
short of the necessity of swimming the distance would have kept me away.
My recollections of the visit are most pleasant: the large
old-fashioned house, in agreeable rustic surroundings; the spirit
of amiability and hospitality that pervaded the small gathering;
the Markhams themselves, Mrs. Markham a kindly elderly woman with a
heart-warming manner, and still personally attractive; and Mr. Markham
looking every inch the poet, white-bearded as a patriarch, with
cordial, twinkling eyes, and a voice that could roll like that of one
of the old bards when intoning his own poems.
Unlike a host of this latter-day age, who would have made it a point
of honor not to let his guests stretch their legs further than between
their car-doors and his house-door, Markham took his visitors on a
stroll down a wooded lane, then dreamily beautiful with the first tan
and crimson of the autumn foliage. I remember that I was privileged
to walk at his side for a good part of the time; he took my arm, in a
fatherly way, and discoursed to me on matters connected with poetry,
though not only with poetry, for I recall his advice to read Carlyle,
and his appraisal of the great moral strength and conviction behind the
famous Scotsman’s writing.
One of the visitors that afternoon was a bald middle-aged man who was
introduced to me as “Mr. Mackay,” and who, I was told, was the editor
of _Success Magazine_. It was at his own initiative, and not owing to
any suggestion of mine, that he said to me, before the meeting broke up
that evening, “Listen, Coblentz. If you’re in the neighborhood of 1133
Broadway some day before long, drop in to see me. Bring some of your
writings--enough to give me an idea what you can do. Don’t forget!”
As I shook his hand, I assured him heartily that I would not forget.
Nor did I. Not many days had passed before I had seen the inside of the
offices of _Success Magazine_; and not many additional days had gone
by before Mr. Mackay, after looking over some samples of my prose and
verse, made me a proposition.
“Ever done any interviewing?”
“A little for the _Examiner_.”
“Well, we need something better than newspaper interviewing. Every
now and then some celebrity passes through town, and we arrange for
one of our writers to visit him and get his views on some important
subject--such as the prospects of the League of Nations, or the
position of women in India, or the future of air travel. Think you
could handle an occasional assignment?”
To this question I gave the expected answer.
“We can’t pay very much,” he drawled on, his stubby fingers drumming
meditatively at his desk. “Twenty-five dollars an article is as high as
we can go.”
Since twenty-five dollars looked as big to me as the side of a
mountain, I assured him that this would be satisfactory.
And thus it came about that I interviewed various notables, of whom far
from the least was Einstein, as modest a man as you could meet, who
spoke through an interpreter, and tried his obliging best to make plain
to me some of the root principles of relativity, though he was less
receptive to certain other reporters, one of whom wanted to know what
he ate for breakfast and was told that the question was too trivial to
answer.
Of all whom I interviewed, only two were poets: the huge, bluff
Gilbert Chesterton; and Rabindranath Tagore, who struck me as no other
human being has ever done. I am at a loss, even after many years, to
explain my awesome feeling upon being ushered into the presence of the
saintly-looking, white-bearded figure--the sense of having come into
contact with a superior being. But it is not enough to say that he was
saintly-looking, and might have been mistaken for one of the patriarchs
of Biblical times; nor would it help to try to repeat any of the wise
things he said. It was simply that, from the man himself, from his very
surroundings, there seemed to emanate spiritual greatness. Even in
memory, it is not hard for me to recapture something of the peculiar,
fascinating spell of his presence, although, among all the people I
have subsequently met, this feeling has never been duplicated, nor even
approached.
In view of the amount of time which I gave to the miscellaneous jobs
necessary to meet room and restaurant bills, it is hard for me now to
see how I could have found much leisure for poetry. My principal work,
in the course of time, came to be book reviewing; regularly I brought
home piles of the latest fiction and non-fiction; I remember a friend
telling with a chuckle how he once met me on a downtown street, my arms
so full of brand-new volumes that I looked like a book salesman. Until
the _Herald_ was merged with the _Tribune_ in 1924, I was one of its
most frequent reviewers, most of the time under Mr. Cole’s successor,
the severe-looking but friendly Arthur Bartlett Maurice; I also was
permitted to do feature reviews and smaller items for the _Times_,
first under Dr. Clifford Smyth and then under Brooks Atkinson, a thin,
wiry, whimsically smiling man later to be better known as dramatic
critic. At the same time, I reviewed for the _Literary Review_ of the
_Post_ under Dr. Henry Seidel Canby; for the _Tribune_ under Burton
Rascoe, the _Bookman_ under John Farrar, the _Sun_, the _Dial_, and
subsequently the _International Book Review_, which was published for
some years by the ill-fated _Literary Digest_. Never let it be said
that the great, callous city of New York is cold and unreceptive to the
unknown newcomer. I, at least, did not find this to be the case.
Among the multitudes of books which passed through my hands--sometimes
as many as twenty-five or thirty unreviewed works stood simultaneously
on my shelves--there was everything from a cookbook for cafeterias to
a monograph on the intelligence of insects. Books of poetry and books
about poetry were much in the minority, though they did come to me
occasionally. But I continued to write poems, and not only short ones
but long, including seventeen hundred lines of blank verse, _The Light
Beyond the Sunset_, which I completed sometime during my first two
years in New York, and which, whatever else you may say about it, did
not exactly pick a tried and familiar theme; it dealt with the imagined
experiences of one who had survived death. This lengthy composition,
so far as I can remember, was not permitted to bore many publishers,
though I recall one who told me he could not publish it because it was
too short for a saleable volume--ah, if only I had spun out another
thousand lines! But from later experience, I now suspect that, if it
had had the extra thousand lines, he would have found it too long for
publication.
I also remember submitting the poem to a Boston publisher, who had
himself written many poems, as well as a number of translations in
verse. Since his publishing house (now long out of existence) issued
occasional books of poetry, I hopefully mailed him _The Light Beyond
the Sunset_. And, a short time afterwards, my hope expanded from a
flicker to a blaze, upon the receipt of a letter: “Dear Mr. Coblentz: I
will be in New York on Thursday the eighteenth. If you can meet me at
2:30 that afternoon in the lobby of the Bryant Hotel, I should like to
talk over your poem with you.”
Truly, a case of the mountain coming to Mahomet! So the great publisher
Mr. Bruce (to give him a name which was not his) was to be in New York!
Not that I flattered myself that his visit was for the sole or even the
principal purpose of seeing a nobody like myself. But how could I help
being elated that so important a man would take up time with my poem?
What could this mean? Naturally, that he wanted to publish the poem.
Nothing less, surely, could prompt a personal interview.
Precisely at two-thirty on Thursday the eighteenth, I entered the lobby
of the Bryant, so excited that it never even occurred to me to remove
my topcoat in the overheated room. I found Mr. Bruce as good as his
word: he seemed to recognize me by something in my looks or manner as
I stared about the lobby with an anxious, appraising glance. There he
was, dressed in dull brown, a spindly man, in his sixties, with a thin
goat-like face and a wispy gray beard. He greeted me enthusiastically;
and trembling just a little now that the great occasion was upon me, I
dropped into a seat beside him.
His opinion of _The Light Beyond the Sunset_ was not long in coming
out. He regarded it as “almost a great poem”--a view which I can report
without a blush, since I consider it about as flattering as if he had
credited me with being “almost intelligent” or “almost honest.” He
would be proud to publish the work, but there were, unfortunately,
some little difficulties--he coughed, and hesitated--some little
difficulties, mostly of a financial nature, which should not even be
mentioned in connection with so fine a poem. But if I could manage a
mere few hundred dollars--
Alas, I could not manage a mere few hundred dollars! All at once my
rainbowed cloud castles collapsed. I had to console myself with the
thought that my “almost great poem” had been almost published. Mr.
Bruce and I, after a long talk about poets and poems generally, said
our goodbyes with mutual cordiality, though nothing more was mentioned
as to _The Light Beyond the Sunset_. This was not to be my last contact
with the man, for sometime later, when he learned that I was compiling
the anthology _Modern American Lyrics_, he sent me an enormous tome
of his sumptuously printed _Collected Poems_ from which to make
selections; and when I could find only one short piece that seemed to
deserve admission, he was sorely disappointed, not to say aggrieved at
my lack of critical discrimination, and probably never forgave me.
Mention of _Modern American Lyrics_ brings me back to the subject of
contemporary poetry in general, which I was following insofar as my
reviewing jobs permitted. I still felt that America was witnessing a
poetic revival, just as I felt this when I wrote my college thesis;
and I wished to do whatever I could to proclaim that great fact, and
to make the poets of the new age known to a public to whom poets still
did not seem important. At the same time, I wanted to warn of dangers
that seemed ever-present and ever-increasing. One method was by means
of articles, and in this I was fortunate: the _New York Times Book
Review_ under Brooks Atkinson on several occasions allowed me a full
page. Referring again to the old clippings, at which I have not glanced
for dozens of years--not, in fact, since they were first culled from
the paper--I see that on February 25, 1923, under the heading of _Oases
and Mirages of the Poetic Desert_, I declared that “It is stimulating
to observe how much good poetry is being written in America today, and
depressing to witness how much poor poetry is being applauded.” As an
example of the “poor poetry,” I quoted from a contribution to Professor
Howard Willard Cook’s critical anthology, _Our Poets of Today_:
I grasped the greasy subway strap
And read the lurid advertisements,
I chewed my gum voraciously,
Inhaled strange fumes pugnaciously,
I heard the grating of the wheels
And felt that the chords
Of my city soul
Were in perfect tune.
Worse than this, far worse, has since been perpetrated, but back
in the innocent early twenties, this was bad enough to be noted as
an example of misbranded poetry, and an indication of the perils
ahead--perils recently all too fully realized. By way of contrast to
such barren prose, however, I devoted the greater part of the article
to more capable poems, including _Fog_, by John Reed, the exquisite
early sonnets of David Morton, several offerings by Hermann Hagedorn
and Arthur Davison Ficke, and the now unfortunately forgotten lyricist
Kendall Banning. Alas, it required far more than any mere article of
mine to keep these things of beauty before the eyes of a world that
concentrated furiously on the things of utility, the things of luxury,
and the things of finance. It is a strange and not a heartening thought
that my very article has no doubt long been lost to the mind of every
being on earth except myself, probably even to the memory of the editor
who accepted the material.
But realizing the fugitive quality of all periodical publication, I
early gave my chief thought to books, a medium that might preserve--at
least, a little longer than the fluttering pages of papers--such things
as I could offer in poetry or prose.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
The Magic World between Covers
One day late in 1923 or early in 1924, I walked into the offices of a
newly established publishing firm, and spoke with Earle H. Balch, later
to be editor-in-chief of Putnams--a handsome young man of about thirty,
with one of the most ingratiating smiles I can remember. Also, I met
Melville Minton, the future President of Putnams, whose death not long
ago caused widespread regret in publishing circles; at the time of our
meeting, he was a debonaire book salesman in early middle life, and had
joined forces with Balch to form the firm of Minton, Balch and Company.
My object in seeing Balch was to present an idea for an anthology of
poetry. In the course of my reviewing and miscellaneous reading, I had
come across many poets, some of them unknown or virtually unknown,
whose work seemed worthy of preservation; these, published along with
examples from the writings of more celebrated authors, would provide
a valuable cross-section of contemporary American poetry. At the
same time, I hoped to avoid a confusion already becoming common: the
confusion of bracketing indisputable poetry together with work not
recognizable as poetry by any standard known before the second decade
of this century.
Balch was sufficiently interested to ask me to draw up a prospectus
and a list of tentative inclusions, which, needless to say, I did
very gladly. And there came a happy day, not many weeks later, when
I was told that my prospectus had been approved, and that I would be
commissioned to compile an anthology, for which Balch proposed the
title, _Modern American Lyrics_.
Alas, on that bright day, I was still to be educated in the trials,
heartaches, and problems of an anthologist.
Those trials, heartaches, and problems were by no means to be
exclusively literary. On the contrary, they were primarily as
non-literary as a contract to buy wheat or potatoes. And this was
because you could not simply dig into the bin of contemporary poetry,
and pick whatever you wished without reference to copyright holders.
None, of course, will question that this is as it should be; the author
and the publisher must be protected in the use of their product. On
the other hand, this makes the compilation of an anthology something
like the running of a hurdle race; and the roadblock it establishes
may be less damaging to the anthologist than to the poets he hopes
to represent. Back in the twenties, however, the situation was less
discouraging than it has since become. Permissions to reprint were
easier to obtain, and the requested fees were fewer and more moderate;
in later years the very making of anthologies--one of the chief
means by which less known poets may gain an audience and a chance
for survival--has been all but prohibited except to compilers and
publishers with wide resources.
As a verse-writer, I endorse the principle that poets should be paid
for the use of their material in compilations; but as an anthologist,
I can testify that this is not always possible. My publishers did
agree to allow a certain sum to be deducted from royalties and applied
to fees for permissions; I cannot recall whether the amount was one
hundred dollars, or two hundred; in any event, it was small enough.
When I asked permission, for example, to reprint a poem by Robert
Frost--not then, nor at any time, one of my favorite poets--the
requested price of twenty-five dollars gave me such a budgetary
headache that I saw no choice except to do without Frost. And when I
wrote to a certain writer, whose poem in a current magazine was one
of those borderline cases that had caused me much hesitation, the
author solved all my doubts when he wrote in from Europe, asking the
compensation of twenty dollars--his poem, so far as I know, remains
unanthologized until this day.
This occurrence, however, was wholly exceptional; every other poet I
consulted was willing, even eager to have his work appear regardless
of remuneration; it was the publishers who gave the trouble, when
there was trouble (though many of them were most cooperative). Thus,
there was the case of the poet who wrote me, “I’d be delighted to have
you use my poems, without charge. But the copyright, unfortunately,
is owned by the publishers; and they are certain to ask fees, maybe
more than you are prepared to pay.” It occurred to me, therefore, that
it would be poor strategy to consult the publishers; and so I wrote
back to the author: “I notice that your book was published years ago.
If it is no longer selling, the publishers probably have no further
use for the copyright, and will release it to you upon request. After
that, I can apply directly to you for reprint permission.” Sometime
later, I had a letter from the author, stating that he had followed
my suggestion, that the copyright was now his, and that he granted me
permission to reprint his work.
In another instance, in which I wished to use several poems by one
writer, I applied to the publishers who had issued his books years
before; and was asked a fee that would have made my budget totter.
Being in communication with the author, I notified him of the request,
and he wrote back hotly: “The publishers you mention no longer have
any rights in my work. The rights were taken over by K, my present
publisher, who has stipulated that I have absolute disposition of the
reprint privileges. I therefore grant you the permission you ask--and
don’t be foolish enough to pay the first publishers a fee.”
Still another writer granted permission with this peculiar warning:
“Don’t under any circumstances write to my publishers to confirm this
consent, though you should, of course, print the usual acknowledgment
to them. This letter is sufficient and final.” It was indeed sufficient
and final; neither in this case, nor in any other connected with any
of the four anthologies I have compiled, has any person challenged my
right of inclusion.
An anthologist, I found, has to be nothing so much as a letter-writer;
my correspondence was voluminous, far more so than I could have
foreseen, and seemed never-ending. Letters began coming in from all
variety of sources, along with manuscripts, magazines, and books
of poems with suggestions for inclusion. But how did this happen?
Did I advertise for material? Naturally not. Nevertheless, a sort
of underground publicity campaign was at work, and one not of my
deliberate making. When I wrote, for example, to poet Phil Brown
asking permission to reprint his sonnet _Midsummer_, Phil might be
so elated that--with no thought at all of advertising my forthcoming
compilation--he would mention my letter to his verse-writing friends
Joe Thompson and Ed Williams; and Joe and Ed, seeing no reason to go
unrepresented when Phil was to be included, would write me nominating
themselves as candidates for anthologizing, and would send quantities
of their work in support of the nomination, in some cases whole floods
of volumes. The result was not, I am sorry to say, a vast increase
in acceptable material; the result was an immense addition to my own
labors, since most of the volunteered material was of poor quality,
some of it atrociously bad. Already, I fear, though I had set out with
the best of intentions, I was making enemies among poets--the editor’s
inevitable lot, since no way yet has been invented of making every
submitted manuscript acceptable.
Errors of judgment in selection do, of course, occur, and must occur,
though no two persons may agree as to what the particular mistakes
have been. Other errors, too, as I learned with deep pain, may creep
in, though there was nothing to parallel the case of one of my own
subsequent printed poems, in which “flashing reel” became converted
into “fishing reel.” But things seemed bad enough when an author wrote
me with a justifiable sense of injury that her sonnet had appeared in
thirteen lines. This, indeed, was true, as I confirmed upon consulting
the book; and it hardly helped matters that, so far as the sequence of
ideas was concerned, the poem seemed not to have lost by the omission
of the line. I did not know, and do not know to this day, whether the
fault lay in an inexcusable error in proofreading, or in the careless
last-minute dropping out of a bar of type by the printer, who was
unaware that sonnets should come in fourteen lines; in any event, that
error, though corrected in later editions, probably tormented me as
much as it did the author.
There were actually two subsequent printings of _Modern American
Lyrics_ as such, in addition to a joint printing with _Modern British
Lyrics_, which first appeared in 1925. In connection with the combined
volume--whose year of publication I cannot readily determine, since
I lent my only copy to a friend, who never returned it--an incident
occurs to me, doubtless a little irrelevant to the present discussion,
but perhaps worth telling. One summer several years after the birth of
the two anthologies, I was browsing in a bookstore in San Francisco;
and my eyes fell upon a volume entitled _Modern Lyrics_. Automatically
I picked it up, and lo and behold! I saw my own name as compiler! What
was that? Did I suffer from acute amnesia, causing forgetfulness of my
own actions? How could I be the editor of an anthology that I did not
even know I had compiled?
A hasty examination, however, showed that the book was nothing more nor
less than _Modern American Lyrics_ and _Modern British Lyrics_ united
under a single cover. But what was this firm of Loring and Mussey,
whose name I read on the title page? A combine of pirates?