Archibald Higbie looks back on his life as an artist who hated his hometown of Spoon River and fled to Rome, hoping to remake himself among European masters. He recalls moments when he felt he had escaped his origins, speaking Italian and French and believing he was seeing the world through the eyes of great artists. But critics kept noticing something unresolved in his work—one minute a face resembled Apollo, the next Abraham Lincoln. That comment stings because it exposes the very Midwest identity he wanted to erase. He feels buried under “western soil,” unable to rid his soul of the place he despises. The mood is bitter and trapped: no matter how far he travels or how high he aspires, Spoon River remains part of him.
Archibald Higbie — Summary
I loathed you, Spoon River. I tried to rise above you, I was ashamed of you. I despised you As the place of my nativity. And there in Rome, among the artists, Speaking Italian, speaking French, I seemed to myself at times to be free Of every trace of my origin. I seemed to be reaching the heights of art And to breathe the air that the masters breathed And to see the world with their eyes. But still they’d pass my work and say: “What are you driving at, my friend? Sometimes the face looks like Apollo’s At others it has a trace of Lincoln’s.” There was no culture, you know, in Spoon River And I burned with shame and held my peace. And what could I do, all covered over And weighted down with western soil Except aspire, and pray for another Birth in the world, with all of Spoon River Rooted out of my soul?