The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1
Page 37
Love,
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Wednesday 23 May 1951*
ALS (postcard), Indiana University
Wednesday
Dear Mum –
One more class today and then I’m through (with classes, at least.) Will you be coming up Friday afternoon, and about what time? I think packing the car would be much easier if you brought up a few suitcases to hold all the things that you sent up in boxes during the year. I will take my bike and pillows home – and, in fact, everything except a change of clothes since I will only be coming back for two brief nights. Also, I would then only have a small suitcase to carry when Dick picks me up. This Botany exam doesn’t worry me – if I study all tomorrow I should do well – but it’s the French & History I’m going to have to slave for. Isn’t this humid weather hideous? Hope going in town hasn’t been too hard on you.
See you –
Love,
Sivvy
TO Marcia B. Stern
Tuesday 29 May 1951*
ALS, Smith College
Tuesday
Angel Child –
Although I may even see your tan face before this missive reaches you, I couldn’t resist telling about my Swampscott trip Saturday. (No, I didn’t see them, but I did see The House.)
Well, after we left you on the back steps, we drove out to Look Park and picnicked. (sp?) Home was reached at the moderate hour of 10, and bed at 12.
Saturday, of course, the glorious specimen of Dick-hood arrived avec car and picnic. (Can’t get away from sandwiches, it seems.) We planned to picnic in Swampscott on the way to Concord, N.H., and so we drove along the shore, asking all sorts of odd people directions to 144 Beach Bluff Avenue – where is located the domicile of the Mayos. Finally, after finding the right road, we drove along, noticing to our amazement that the numbers seemed to begin with 142 and get smaller. I had a queer feeling that the house had been blown out to sea, and that we were out of a job. But, upon looking backward, we found we’d missed a sweeping driveway, hidden by a tall aristocratic hedge. That was “IT.” Lord, Marty, if you could have seen! There was one huge and beautifully architectured (I am not sure about that last word) white house, and then two smaller ones, with all sorts of cars and shiny beach wagons parked carelessly about. Not only that – the landscaped green lawn had a few minor children’s toys – such as a jungle gym – scattered around. Tennis court and yacht were modestly in hiding.
Methinks I shall arrive in a coach-in-four, with a diamond tiara tilted casually over one eye. Impressed? I’m still gasping.
See ya Thursday.
Love,
Syl
P.S. Home is not the place to study. Even administrations got psychology, darn ’em.
S.
TO Hans-Joachim Neupert
Wednesday 6 June 1951
ALS (photocopy), Smith College
June 6, 1951
Dear Hans-Joachim . . .
At last, at last exams are over for a few months, and I will not begin to take notes and read textbooks again until next September! My first of four years at college has whisked by so rapidly that I feel that I closed my eyes for a minute and someone played a cruel trick on me and made me a year older---just like that!
I have only a week and a half to rest at home now before I go down to Swampscott on the Massachusetts shore for my summer job. I will be taking care of three children, ages 2, 4 and 6, for a rather wealthy doctor’s family. It will no doubt be a great deal of work, but I just hope the little ones will like me, as that will make the summer infinitely nicer.
My sympathies are with you in your job as “Practicant.” Do you live all alone, with no other students nearby? It must be hard to manage away from home. Even though I am away at school I do not have to worry about meals and a room as I board there. So it is not too different from home in that respect.
And now again the summer is upon us. Even though college lets out early in June and begins late in September, it seems suddenly that the years accelerate and move faster and faster which is sad. The ice cream cart, painted with white enamel, is now driving slowly down the street, ringing its musical bell to call the children out from the houses and tempt them to buy the bright cold ices. And I know that it is truly summer once more.
By the way, I did enjoy your picture Hans! It was quite lovely; I showed it to my mother and she liked it too. Also, I certainly can read your handwriting, and in fact, find it quite easy to read. So don’t bother to print . . . that takes so much time.
You mentioned that you were reading one of Upton Sinclair’s works. I do know a little about him – but perhaps you know more than I. At any rate, his most famous work was perhaps “The Jungle” – a social work on the conditions in the Chicago stockyards. Most of his books have been about social issues in America; he dramatizes a situation in his powerful way, and thus calls the attention of the people to bad or unjust conditions through his dynamic writing. I am very interested to know what the “Voice of America” says. I hope they give a nearly-true picture of America – there are faults here, as everywhere, and there is a great easy class that owns maroon convertibles and swimming pools – but whatever people say, Money is not all America’s God. There are a multitude of hard-working, sensible, idealistic, intelligent young people here, just as there are everywhere else.
And now it is getting late, and I must go to bed on time for once, as I still haven’t caught up on sleep from all the nights I spent studying for exams.
My best to you in all your work, Hans. I know, as you do, that it is worth it to have to work in order to reach some of the important things in life.
Thanks again for your fine letter.
Sincerely,
Your friend
Sylvia
TO Marcia B. Stern
Wednesday 6 June 1951
ALS with envelope on Smith
College letterhead, Smith College*
Syl P.
26 Elmwood Rd.
Wellesley, Mass.
“She clasps the sun oil with hooked hands;
Close to the sun in backyard lands,
Ringed with azure halter, she stands,
—
The wrinkled rug beneath her crawls;
Her love for sunlight never palls,
Till with sunstroke down she falls . . .”
And now, after causing Tennyson* to writhe and mumble with insomnia in his tomb, we will commence by saying hello and it-was-so-nice-to-get-a-letter-at-home-from-you.
Seriously, though, it never quite feels like being home until after I’ve gotten that first letter . . . and yours was “it.” Shall I get you caught up with past days?
Well, after you and votre mère pulled cheerily out of Hamp Friday, I swallowed various odd protuberances which had risen to my throat, shouldered the Books and headed once more over to the History seminar. Somehow I just couldn’t get serious about the exam---I felt so washed out after History 11 that I kept expecting someone to give me a Purple Heart, pat me tenderly on my hard little head and send me home. No such luck, alas. 8 a.m. Saturday found me staring unbelievingly at the first French question which happened to be on history. Naturally I rewrote half of what I’d written for 11 and quoted symbolist poetry for the rest of the blue book. I hope to h— I answered some of the questions. (Having nagging suspicion I didn’t.) Enough of such sordid details!
Spent all morning tying books in bundles, labeling things, and sitting on my suitcase, stuffing in that last towel. Afternoon spent thumbing with pathetic and frivolous nonchalance through Life. I felt so queer when Stobie said, “You lucky thing. I’ve got three more exams next week.” I couldn’t even comprehend . . . I was so stuffed.
Suddenly, about 3:30 I looked up and there was a rather nice-looking guy in a white t-shirt and sneakers tiptoeing up behind me. “Hello,” said I carelessly. Perry drove home, while Dick explained the intricacies (sp.?) of carboxyl and hydroxyl groups, to which I listened with n
ot as much avidity as I should have.
The Yale men dropped me at home in time for supper. After which Dick biked over for a brief 15 minutes to show me the suave black paint job on his 2-wheeler & walk me quickly around the block. An intellectual pass on his part in the direction of the international situation was blocked on my part (with a mute resolve to read and memorize every issue of the Monitor this summer.) We parted . . . buddies, you might say.
He headed off with Perry for a week’s trip in the wilds of Maine – around Jonesport – Sunday, so I will catch no glimpse of his pointed blond head till this Saturday leaving me a blissful week to “get things done in.”
Growth of the Soil, – Knut Hamsun*
In Dubious Battle – John Steinbeck*
As I Lay Dying / The Sound & the Fury – Faulkner*
Also picked up a few pocket books – Grapes of Wrath,* Native Son,* The Sun Also Rises,* Sanctuary,* The Good Earth.* Some of the covers are a bit lurid – but Hemingway & Faulkner aren’t the coyest babies in the literary game, after all.
On my way home I stopped at my old hunting ground – the town tennis courts. Ah, yes! Thereupon, while banging ball vs. backboard, I met my favorite young high school protegé* – a cutie who (with the addition of an inch or two) might have great possibilities. Honestly, I’ve never seen such a handsome, athletic and brilliant baby doll. He’ll only be a senior next year, but is No. 1 on the tennis team and won 2nd prize in the U.N. contest this year. So I maternally patted him on the shoulder & told him to come up and see me some time.
As for yesterday – cold, nasty, wet, – I met mother in town and rambled through the Gardner Art Palace with her, browsing through old relics and letters to the Great Isabella from everybody from Dostoievsky to Hoover.
Spent all last night reading Dick’s sociology papers which amounted to well over 100 pages – gosh, that boy! I often wonder how I can keep up with him.
Today, with the first ray of soleil I was out in the backyard in as little as possible . . . later this afternoon Pat O’Neil and I will head high school-ward to pay homage to our favorite Eng. prof. High School graduates tonight – such is life. I think I never mentally got over the chronological idea that I was just seventeen. 18 seems rather too old for me – I feel cheated.
Oh, well, if I meander much longer, I shall have no breath in my body.
Wrote Mayos – to ask about the Date of Arrival.
Let me know how life is working out . . .
Anon ---
Syl
TO Marcia B. Stern
Tuesday 12 June 1951*
ALS with envelope, Smith College
Toosday
Postcard received, appreciated (and envied) in that order. Today is a Tuesday, and in a week from today I’ll have spent one night already at my summer resort. This New England weather is driving me slowly insane. I sit out in the back yard with various “things to do” and strip to halter and shorts, apply sun oil, and settle back with a loud “Ah!” The sun beams brightly for all of five minutes, whereupon big glossy white clouds start charging up over the horizon and a cold wind springs up, leaving me shivering and muttering curses at the impersonal neutrality of nature in general. How I would love a month’s vacation by the shore with naught to do but sun, read, and be unsociable.
That last adjective springs from this last weekend, which will be recounted shortly in proper order. All last week I lawnmowed, pianoed, tennised, read a little of “What Makes The Wheels Go Round”* – and rested in general – seeing Pat and a pal at Wellesley College. Friday Dick and Perry came back from a week of rough and evidently heavenly camping and fishing at Jonesport, Me. Dick called & asked me to join him babysitting Saturday night . . . and to stay over so I could leave early with the rest of the family Sunday a.m. Clad in my usual old skirt & blouse I went over about 6. Dick thoroughly embarrassed me by cooking and heating up a delightful and delicious dinner (damn boys anyway). We tucked David* (7 yr. old brother) in bed, and Dick told him a story. Whereupon we did dishes, listened to César Francks Symphony in D Minor (which I gave him for a commencement gift – at mother’s suggestion – trust me not to think up things myself.) Parents came home early, and I went to bed – feeling only slightly strange appearing in p.j.’s before his somewhat conventional father (a History prof . . . at B.U. – graduated 1st in his class at Yale!) Mrs. Norton is my favorite – you would love her – very pretty in a mobile way – and terribly capable= keeps a house running and her four men well-fed, ironed, clothed and happy.
She got up at 5, Sunday a.m., and by the time I poked my lazy head out of the sack at 6, she had a picnic lunch packed, house cleaned, and huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, oatmeal – all sorts of yummy things – steaming on the table. The four of us set out for New Haven at 7 – “Aunt Mildred” and I sitting in back, and the two men in front – of P. K.’s* big beach wagon (loaned for the occasion.)
Never have I been dashed so madly from place to place and felt such an odd mixture of emotions. I stayed for the most part with Dick’s parents Baccalaureate (sp) occupied the morning – and the Pres. of Yale* gave a neat speech which included delightfully pungent references about television, easy living and so on. After that, we picked up dick and drove miles out into the hills for a nice picnic spot, only to get there and find we’d left the lunch back at the room. Say, anticlimaxes!
Afternoon was Class Day – with dick always off with the class in cap & gown. Mildred & I had to smile at Mr. N. who is so much more serious about college spirit than Dick, who considers honorary societies, white handkerchief waving and “Bright College Years” so much nonsense. After Class Day, it was a two hour tea at the headmaster’s house, and I got so damn sick of making small talk with mothers of boys and fiancées and young wives that I thought my sweet girlish smile had frozen to my face. I felt like drowning myself in the iced tea bowl, in a flurry of mint leaves. Dick and I weren’t on speaking terms for a while . . . because I had refused to say I thought Class Day was trite in front of his boyishly enthusiastic father, and ad nauseam.
At last we freed ourselves and I welcomed Dick’s invitation to “dress down”. We all drove out to the beach, where it was cold and windy, and let the wind and quiet wash the gaiety off. Dick & I then got so excited at driving through Savin Rock* . . . a second Coney Island . . . that Mildred told us they’d watch the car while we joined the carnival crowd for a little. Had two rides on the merry-go-round and felt as excited as if I were eight years old. It’s such fun to be able to put sophistication aside with hat & gloves and be a kid again. We had a late supper in New Haven, and they left Mildred & me at the “Y” where we were staying overnight. Before going to bed, Mr. Norton (a crack athlete for all his 46 years) tried to play ping pong with me, while Dick played songs on the piano . . . picture me in the “Y” game room, angel, hitting ping pong balls into bookcases and light bulbs!
Slept rawther little all night, as the trucks rumbled through on the street below for hours on end, and girls got up to go to work from 4 a.m. on. Breakfast with Mrs. N. – then Commencement – then lunch and drive home. Saw Dick in glimpses.
Fell into bed at 8 p.m., whereupon Dick called to inform me he’s going off on a trip to Cape Ann with a family from Arizona that’s visiting them for a week. Well, hell, didn’t want to see him anyhow. Also, he’s going west right after summer job to visit young married friends before school. Tra la la. Looks like glimpses is all we get, boy.
Good lord, I’m cruel – rambl
ing for pages about myself! Shush, you selfish creature, and let the gal hear something else than “I and Dick.”
Say, but I hate dashing hither & yon . . . . I have packed and unpacked so many times in so many places that I begin to feel something like a transient. I love the idea of travel and so on, but there are times when I think I should have tuberculosis, just so I’d be justified to loaf in a sunny sanatorium and read and write and see nobody and make no small talk.
Speaking of corrupting the younger generation – I have descended to a new low. He’s aiming at Harvard, but will only be a senior at high next year (16, sweet---etc.) He won 2nd prize in the U.N. contest and is 1st on our tennis team. Phil McCurdy is the name, and you should see the smug knowing looks of all the pretty, popular Wellesley High socialites. I can just hear the little beasts whispering, “There goes poor old Sylvia with that little baby – my, but her social contacts must be rusty.” So I say cheerily “To Hell,” pat my cute protegé on his boyish shoulder and ask him how to cut a tennis ball. Love life, and as long as people are interesting, who gives a damn about color, age or education! Be good and/or have fun.
Love,
Syl
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 19 June 1951*
ALS with envelope,
Indiana University
Tuesday