~ Edna St. Vincent Millay. Love how her knees disappear off the bed. And her claw of a hand, how it’s extended.

I typed out a letter she wrote back home, which I found in Savage Beauty by Nancy Milford. It’s early in Millay’s career, and though she’s published Renascence at the time of this letter, she’s still at Vassar, on the graces of scholarships and other support. She’s grown up poor in Maine with her two younger sisters, no father, rarely a mother—and no comforts, which makes the letter all the more delicious. It is written from the home of a Mrs. Thompson who has invited Millay to stay with her for three weeks so that Millay can write and not worry about rent or other living expenses.

“It is eleven o’clock in the morning. I am still in bed. At nine o’clock Anna, my personal maid—(for all I ever see her doing for anyone else) awakened me with my breakfast. She came in with the tray—silver coffee-things, & fruit, & bacon and an egg—(God forgive me if you are even now hungry!—I will send you five no, one dollar I wish I could send ten)—and little sticks of toast rolled up in an embroidered napkin, & a vase of hot-house flowers. This she set down on the bed. Then she closed the windows, saw that the register was open, brought me my negligee & helped me into it, propped pillows behind my back, brought two hair-pins from the bureau for me to pin back my hair with, put my cigarette-case, holder, & matches within easy reach—all this without a word from me except Good-morning—then asked if there were anything I would like, & left me, softely closing the door behind her.—I swear to you I am not inventing a word of it; & that is the way it happens every morning!”