The Letters of Sylvia Plath Vol 2

by Sylvia Plath

  It was so good to get your newsy letter. I love hearing about your doings and Bobby and Nancy, and only wish I had a private jet service so I could get over to see you all for the Christmas holidays! The adorable pink sweater arrived for Frieda, Dotty, and she looks wonderful in it---a very becoming color. A sweater is the most-needed thing for a baby in this climate with no central heating. We loved the little cup, too, and Frieda is drinking from it, with help and me holding it. (I don’t think there were two cards in the packet, for I looked through---maybe they forgot. Anyhow, a thousand thanks for the cup. Don’t worry about the Rebecca on it: everybody who put names on anything put Rebecca and it was our fault because we didn’t know till she was born that she would be called Frieda!)

  Frieda is teething now and very upset by it: she cries off and on in the night and Ted and I are getting a bit haggard. During the day she is an angel, with a big appetite and funny little games. She creeps all round her pen, bangs on an over-turned cake tin like a drum, and when we say “Kiss your mummy” she puts her face to my cheek and goes “Mmmmmmm” with a little smack. She is a doll.

  Ted had his hour-long play on this week and it will be broadcast again in December. I went to the final rehearsal last Sunday and was very excited. They had two “name” actors who are currently in West End productions (the stars, no less) read two of the main rolls. Anything he does now is jumped on and noticed: this play is being reviewed over the radio Sunday by the weekly panel of critics and has already been reviewed in another program called Comment. Ted had a Greek translation on the radio this week too which was favorably reviewed in the papers, & I’m reading two poems on a program Sunday night. It’s lots of fun to tune in and hear people doing our stuff! Now Ted’s working on a three-act play. Maybe someday you’ll be able to go see his plays on Broadway! Anyhow, he loves his work.

  We hear Grampy had a super-gorgeous pre-birthday dinner in Concord. Wish we could have been there.

  Much love to all,

  Sylvia

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Friday 25 November 1960

  TLS, Indiana University

  3 Chalcot Square

  London N.W.1

  November 25, 1960

  Dear mother . . .

  First of all, tell Warren how proud Ted & I are that he passed his Orals! From our permanent vacation over here he sounds to be performing Herculean labors. How much chance is there that he might come to London for that conference---can he apply for it? We would be overwhelmed with joy if he could come. He would be knocked silly by little Frieda. She has two small scallop-edged teeth in the bottom front of her mouth now and is just the sweetest tempered funny thing---she stood up yesterday! We were aghast, as she doesn’t sit up by herself yet. She saw the colored beads on her playpen, pulled herself up on her knees to reach them by tugging on the bars, and then onto her feet. Of course she didn’t know what to do then, and Ted caught her in time. I hope she’ll leave that trick alone for a while yet. I’ve had her vaccinated the second time this week and hope it takes, as it’s a bore to keep her out of the tub. She loves her baths now and kicks so hard water flies all over me and the room. She eats rusks by hand now and I can always quiet her with one of those. One of her favorite pastimes is banging at her reflection in a shiny pie tin with her hand or any noisy object she can get hold of. She is crammed full of giggles, singing, talking and sweet expressions.

  I’m enclosing another cheque for our Boston account from the New Yorker for a poem of Ted’s.*

  Mrs. Prouty sent me a cheque for $150 to celebrate the publication of my book, the dear thing. I won’t earn another thing on that, so we’re putting it toward current expenses. Ted has the best story he’s done yet, about a fat man shooting rabbits at harvest-time* accepted by the BBC today, which will mean a nice sum---he’ll read it, and then it will probably be played twice, once in Christmas week. It’s a dazzling story. I’m going to send it to magazines in America now.

  I caught a nasty cold somehow yesterday and am nursing it today. We have tickets to Chin-Chin,* a play translated from the French, tonight, so I’m hoping that will help me forget my sniffles.

  Dido has leant (loaned) me an old hand-wind Singer out of her attic, so I’ll be able to defer that expense for a while. I wrote Dot, by the way, this last week, and Mrs. Spaulding (the 2nd time) and Mrs. Churchill long ago. They’re crazy to ask you to be chairman of the church fair. What about all the wealthy madams who sit about having their fingers manicured during the day?

  Helga Huws had a baby this week, her 2nd daughter, Lucy Teresa. I visited her at the hospital and saw the little thing in her nursery---made me want another really small one immediately. I would so like a permanent spacious place where I could have as many children as I wanted!

  Let us know how Ted’s play sounds.

  Lots of love,

  Sivvy

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath

  Monday 28 November 1960

  TLS (aerogramme), Indiana University

  Monday night

  November 28

  Dearest mother,

  I’m sitting here in the late evening, curtains drawn, the little Pifco warming the room cheerily, in my bathrobe, on one of Ted’s rare nights out. He has driven to Coventry with Dido Merwin and John Whiting,* a playwright, to see Bill Merwin’s play at the repertory theatre there, The Golden West, or gilded west.* Bill is in America, collecting thousands on lectures & readings. Ted left about 3 and won’t be home till 3 or 4 am as its a long drive, so I’ve had one of my rare, rare times to myself. I realize how crowded we are here when I am alone for a bit, enjoying every minute of it, feeling inclined to do little secret things I like. My cold vanished as quickly as it came without the usual drag, so I’m in pretty good spirits, and the baby didn’t catch it. Her vaccination (2nd) looks to be taking well, a big bubble blister, and I’m relieved. We went to dinner last night with the sister of Ted’s friend Lucas Meyers (we met the sister, a charming 35ish Southerner with a brilliant English professor husband and a darling little boy after 11 years waiting for a baby) who’s here with her husband on a grant,* so slept late this morning. I then spent the morning of this invigorating clear blue ideal London day in the estate agents office learning about mortgages, rent controlled tenants, and other details I determined to educate myself about. And collected their list of houses for sale around here. Then went downtown to Piccadilly, under the superb avenue of trumpeting angels on Regent Street (beautifully illuminated at night) to the exhibit of paintings by a Corsican woman* I admire in a posh gallery where I amused myself by boldly inquiring the prices of the ones that I liked---all, of course from between 1 to 3 thousand $. Then dashed home in time for Ted to leave. A busy afternoon at the laundromat, shopping, listening to my radio-Italian lesson (a course of 40 the BBC is broadcasting), bathed & fed the baby, & gathered my courage to take my letter of introduction from one of the dearest doctors on my panel of 5 (the one who came to see about my sprained ankle) and headed around the corner to 4 Chalcot Crescent, just 2 houses & a road away from Primrose Hill, an open sunny quiet street unlike anything else in this district of slum or opulence---modest adorable houses. Dr. Horder* had told me---when I impulsively asked him to produce a miracle & put us on to one of these rare sought-after houses in the Crescent, about this house of Mrs. Waley’s* (sister-in-law to the Chinese translator, Arthur Waley)* which she plans to sell in about a year from this January (an ideal time for a move for us!!!) As I said, the dr. told me it would be about 7 thousand pounds, very reasonable for a Park location house you have nothing to do to. Mrs. Waley was at her country house,* but a Mrs. Hankin* who lived there showed me in. It was love at first sight. My experience of house-viewing and assessing in the past months (I was teething so to speak) has taught me what I want. This was it. A gem. Four floors, about 2 rooms on each floor. The top floor is rented out to two girls & we could rent it for a nice little income until our family grew big enough to use 8 rooms. The basement has a large front roo
m (generally used as kitchen-nursery in the other posh houses around) with big windows, a sturdy kitchen in back overlooking a little cement area roomy enough for baby-carriage & sandbox, and steps up to a charming tiny garden with bay tree, cherry tree & a grape vine Mrs. Hankin makes jam from. The first (ground) floor has a large room made from two small ones, built-in bookcases---the sort you could make a living-room-study or living-room-dinette, beautifully proportioned. A little 2nd kitchen on the landing which could be a sewing room. Then: Two divine bedrooms, the front one with French windows and a balcony from which we could see the moon over Primrose Hill, then (she said) two more bedrooms upstairs. There seemed several toilets & one comfortable bathroom. She knew my name, that Ted had a Somerset Maugham award & seemed congenial, giving me the name & address of Mrs. Waley’s country home, so I could ask for “first refusal” & saw me off into the night with “meanwhile, dream your dreams”. Oh mother for the first time I saw us living in a house perfectly suited to our needs! I do so want at least four children & am head over heels in love with London. We have well over 7 thousand $ saved now, & with furious work & luck might manage enough in a year’s time to make about between a half & third downpayment. A 3 thous. pound 20-year mortgage would only amount to under $500 rent a year or so, if I calculate right, less rent than we pay now for our cram-jammed place! What do you think of this? As Ted lets me go ahead, I have to do all the learning myself. The house is attractively enough decorated & painted so we’d have to do nothing for a start & could gradually add bits of furniture. I feel cool-headed about this & its location is not-yet-discovered---except by a few people. Ive already met two families of our would-be neighbours & love them: a street of youngish, quiet, family-centred professional people: BBC, psychiatrist, artist etc. I am working very hard now on something I never really attacked right: women’s magazine stories. Very rusty and awkward on my first, I got into the swing & am half through my second with a plot for a 3rd Ted & I worked out together called “House of My Heart”. I also have a fine lively agent* (who wrote me about a story of mine in the London Magazine) whom I’ve met & who is affiliated with one of the best NYC agencies & so after I get my earliest acceptances in the many women’s weeklies here, they’ll send any stuff good enough to the SatEvePost, etc. For the first time I feel I know where I’m going---a couple of American sales could make the house a reality! Do write me about your thoughts on this house – a year just gives us time to gather forces & $$$.

  xxx

  S.

 

  PS – The front rooms on each floor of the house are central heated!

  Frieda is fine – more fun every day. I’m just wild about her & after seeing Helga’s 2nd daughter, dying to have space for another really little one!

 

  PS Where’s my New Yorker??? No sign of it yet!

  TO Olwyn Hughes

  Monday 28 November 1960*

  ALS,* British Library

  Dear Olwyn –

  Ted only left me the barest fringe. Saw a superb exhibit today of the paintings of the fabulous Léonor Fini who divides her time between Corsica & Paris – Do you know her work? She’s a polyglot herself, given to wearing animal masks about the house & has – among some bad stuff – jewel-like misty otherworldish damsels & cadavers with a wierd, terrifying beauty, like necrological mannequins – I’d like to pay a pilgrimage to her Corsican monastery – reachable only by donkey. We’re suffering late autumn exhausture & blues & eager for the cowlike peace of Yorks. at Christmas.

  xxx

  Sylvia

  TO Aurelia Schober Plath & Warren Plath

  Wednesday 14 December 1960*

  TLS in greeting card,* Indiana University

 

  Greetings / for / Christmas / and / the New Year

  Dear mother & Warren . . .

  I am writing this on the eve of our departure to Yorkshire: both of us are dying to go, recharge our batteries, and come back ready for intense work by New Year’s Day, brimful of energy to carry out our projected ideas. I am writing in a litter of BBC contracts, Christmas cards and Frieda’s winter clothes, having just read a poem for a book-review of my book over the radio* (which will be broadcast next week, a day after Ted’s story, “The Harvesting”). All in all, his play brought in about $600 from its two radio performances, which was worth it. Don’t take his elaborate metaphysical explanations too seriously and don’t show them to anyone.* He is so critical of the play---which I think reads perfectly as a symbolic invasion of private lives and dreams by mechanical war-law and inhumanity such as is behind the germ-warfare laboratory in Maryland---that he feels a need to invent elaborate disguises as a smokescreen for it. Both of us have emerged with heads above water after a deeply demanding year and are eager to plunge into our “new” lives of writing and private forays on London’s wonders.

  I must confess I opened your marvelous parcel which arrived yesterday so I could sort out what things to take to Yorkshire. I hope you’ll forgive my practicality, but we have an immense deal to lug up there. I am stunned and delighted with Frieda’s things! Ours of course---shirt, tights, slip & the good books, are fine, but you should see Ted: “Let’s open Frieda’s now!” We’re both happiest with things for her. She loves her Raggedy Ann, Warren. Laughs at it and fingers the button eyes. And loves the squeaky chicken: she holds it up to me for me to make the noise by pressing it, and bangs it on the floor herself to make the peeps. The rag books are a godsend: I shall ration these myself. And the pajamas roomy (very---should last months). I’m mad for the slacks---especially the ones with pointed toes & pompons! Dot sent 10$ which arrived safely (I told her so on the envelope of her Xmas card) & I bought a handsome pale blue wool sleeping bag with it which converts to a bathrobe when they outgrow the bag bottom---I’ll use this as a winter coat and pram suit. I bought her a bright red peaked pixie cap & she looks like Infant Christmas in it.

  I hope your presents arrive in time. They are separate---the big box is for you, mother, the smaller for Warren. I felt your thing was just you, mummy, color, style, texture, everything. Hope it fits. I couldn’t resist it. And Warren’s I felt were him. Hope you are in agreement. I sent Dotty & Joe the merest trifle---two candles made in the shape of Italian chianti bottles with labels and all---an odd, if inexpensive thing. I spend a lot on Xmas cards, stamps etc. & yet did want to remember them. Do you think that will be OK? I’ve sent lots of cards and in many enclosed my poem about a “Winter Ship” off T-Wharf which I hope won’t be too heavy going for anyone---its mainly descriptive.

  We got a long, marvelous letter from Mrs. Prouty & have sent her off a card with letters & poems* from each of us. I am so pleased her reaction to my book has been so enthusiastic. I only hope I get a woman’s story or two published in time for her to see them, as I think that would please her most of all. We are going to take the money she sent us ($300 in all) for Frieda & my book & buy livingroom furniture with it next month to replace all Dido Merwin’s stuff. Our relation with her & Bill whom we have large reservations about, has been made false by our living off her second-hand things: she & he feel they can walk in on us any time, expect us (especially Ted) to come over for dinner as domestic “lions”, and both of us feel the need to free ourselves from this uncomfortable dependency. We’ve let Mrs. Prouty have an idea of what we plan to do, thinking she’ll approve: it will mean getting on our own feet here without feeling like Exhibit A. Ted’s work is so good he doesn’t need “contacts” of any sort. The next step, of course, is a house. I am very excited that children seem to be an impetus to my writing, and it is only the lack of space that stands in my way. As soon as I start selling women’s magazine stories I could afford a half-day babysitter or something equivalent to do the drudge-work. I think Ted & I will probably decide to appear on a radio program called “Two of a Kind”*---an interview series with husbands & wives who have the same profession. Keep after that speedwriting book. All
sorts of queer parttime jobs crop up here.

  Oh, how I’m longing for the deep dreamless sleeps of Yorkshire! We’re both so tense we need to unwind for weeks. We’ll be back here by New year’s day. I’ve got my first two New Yorker’s already & revel in them. It’s like getting a fresh present from you every week! Much Much love to you and a thousand Christmas wishes

  Your own,

  Sivvy

  TO Ann Davidow-Goodman & Leo Goodman

  c. Saturday 17 December 1960*

  TLS/ALS in greeting card,* Smith College

 

  Christmas Greetings

 

  from / Sylvia, Ted & Frieda

  Hello you two . . .

  Excuse our long, inexcusable and groggy silence. We have the two fine books, yours, Ann, I think a sure rival to Sir Lear.* We look forward to nurturing Frieda to an age where she will lisp the rhymes & point in delight to the matching animals. We have been involved in a round of time & energy consuming small potatoes and are resolved to live like hermits,(if not saints, Leo) from now on & work work work. As if to challenge this resolve Ted got a wicked telegram from ABC television* this morning (heaven knows how they knew where he was) asking him to appear as poet-of-the-year. He refused, in spite of his mother’s wailing wall scene. So much for that.

  Frieda has been miraculously transformed into a standing wonder. Her eyes are much larger and bluer and stop even more people in the street. She never cries out of petulance or anger, only for tooth-cutting (she has two scalloped beauties the better to gnaw us with on her lower jaw) or other rare aches, and greets us two grim atheists every morning with angelic smiles and pink cheeks and winsome games of tongue-clicking, pie-tin beating and standing-laughing, to sweeten our natures. She never bothered with sitting, just rose one day by hauling herself up on her cribrail and stood, very proud of herself. Would you two, by the way, consider being her godparents-in-absentia, since you were such in spirit and presence this summer? Ted & I can’t think of any luckier combination of stars, talents and felicities to be Frieda’s symbolic guardians! Wishing you two golden ones well,