GLENWAY WESCOTT
397
dering mind; we, his readers and listeners, were all one man.
In
consequence, he came
to
be what is called a culture hero, an
American Everyman.
It
was in that same year, 1961 , that he addressed the National
Institute of Arts and Letters about his dream of having a depart–
ment of literature and the arts in the federal government, with a
secretary all our own in the cabinet. He preached this and lobbied
for it throughout the Kennedy administration. At that time I was
president of the institute, and as such had the honor of introduc–
ing him
to
our membership after our dinner together. When our
clapping for him ceased, he gazed around for half a minute, then
made a statement that amazed me. " First, let me tell you some–
thing about Glenway; he is now one of my oldest friends. I've
watched him ever since Mrs. Moody, the wife of the poet Moody,
sent him
to
see me when he was twenty. "
That meeting at the institute happened also to be my sixtieth
birthday, April II, 1961. As a general rule I haven't a strong feel–
ing of time passing; indeed I have been afflicted with that neurosis
which causes one
to
feel young almost all one's life; but anniver–
saries add something to one's arithmetic.
For a moment on that April evening great Frost disappeared
from my mind, and with him all the company of the institute
and the great library-dining room where we were, about fifty of
us. I stood as though all soul, alone upon one of the great divides
in my life. Looking back upon my visit
to
Peterborough as the
poet's widow's envoy, I saw where forty years had gone-in the
other direction, downhill. I could envisage myself older than
Frost, probably dead, although an exceptional longevity runs in
my family. I felt it at the roots of my hair, at the juncture of my
lips on either side, and in the tips of my fingers, hot and cold:
thanksgiving for one thing, having had more than I deserved al–
ways, and the tragic desire to live forever.
It
was in the autumn of 1921-just after my glimpse of
Robinson and Bodenheim together and my preliminary ac–
quaintance with Frost-that I first rang Marianne Moore 's
doorbell at St. Luke's Place in New York, across the street from
the branch library where she worked. I had no reason
to
do so, no
recommendation from Mrs. Moody or anything of the sort, only
that curiosity, favorably inclined, which is an early stage or
