The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume 1
Page 40
But now I realize that most of my sadness this past week has been due to a sore throat and hard cough which starts as soon as evening comes and lasts till noon. Of course my sinuses have been draining down constantly, but luckily they haven’t turned into a cold. I got up courage to ask Mrs. Mayo today what I should do, and of course Dr. Mayo looked at me – but I am now much better, so he just gave me cough medicine and told me to gargle – that the throat would go away of its own accord. So I felt better and rather reassured. The idea of dying of tuberculosis in a doctor’s house struck me as highly ironic. Naturally, my listless, headstuffed feeling contributed to my depression, but worry not, fair one, I am almost done with convalescing.
In fact, hard work never killed anyone – and I try to get at least 8 – often 9 – hours of sleep per night!*
At last I have gotten “paid.” Mrs. Mayo mentioned casually at breakfast “I guess I should be giving you some money,” so I said that a check a week would be fine. Thus I now cherish a $50 check in my bureau drawer. Somehow I feel a little less like a minor under slave labor with that cashable piece of paper at hand.
I am glad you are heading Hampton beachward – would that I were with you! I am seriously thinking of ceasing labor on August 27 – a Monday – and saying I’m going to visit Dick or a friend on the Cape. I would have then earned $250, and think that the extra week would be worth more for getting rested up for school, than would be the $25. What do you think? Of course things might work out so that they’d make it desirable or that I’d really decide to work till September 3. But I doubt it. I want to get my four weeks of family and self-indulgence and health-building before I begin the old grind.
Seventeen sent two brief mimeographed copies of eulogistic letters* about my story. I laughed a bit sadistically, and take them out to read, whenever I think I’m a worthless, ungifted lummox – some gal by the name of Sylvia Plath sure has something – but who is she anyhow?
“My head is bloody, but unbowed
May children’s bones bedeck my shroud.”*
xx
Sivvy
P.S. I will grow up in jerks, it seems, so don’t feel my growing pains too vicariously, dear.
Love you all heaps –
sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Thursday 12 July 1951*
ALS with envelope,
Indiana University
Thursday
Mother dear –
A brief brief note to tell you and grammy just how much I love you both! I never got such strength out of an hour in my life. So I came back with renewed vigor, got supper, put the children to bed several times, and walked over to the Blodgett’s to listen once to Beethoven’s 9th (a choral symphony, and lovely, too.) The three of us girls were very weary, so I came back after ice cream and milk a little past ten. It is now going on eleven, but I feel that tomorrow night I can go to bed extra early.
You know, I really think if I get my numbed sensibilities back again that I can enjoy this even more. The beauty of Marblehead beckons – one day off I will surely consecrate to sketching – probably later in August, when Marcia will be seeing Mike.* It will be a treat if I can get some pastels – I am languishing for color. Also I should invest in new water colors – mine are dry and used almost up.
As for Monday, I’ll call you probably as soon as I hear from that old boy. Saturday or Sunday.
One thing, I would like to drop in and see Fran for a 10 minute checkup, Dick wouldn’t mind, I feel sure, and I’d love any suggestions about my throat – tis now two weeks of gargling and it drags on.
As you have seen, I eat well, and am far from the corpse I might be. So I’ll carry on. How about sending me your sponge cake recipe? Mechanics bother me. Like how to get a layer cake right side up & together after cooling face down with out breaking or crumbling. Do you use a spatula? Hands?
Best love to you all,
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Wednesday 18 July 1951
ALS with envelope,
Indiana University
Wednesday
July 18
Dearest Mother . . .
Well, it is going on nine, and I am comfortably propped up in my big, comfortable bed, door to porch wide open, so that straight ahead of me I can see the bluegray of the twilit ocean, with the single point of streetlight. I can even now hear the waves above the whish of cars along the turnpike.
My room is so lovely, I luxuriate in it, as with the house. I feel a proprietary air about it now, and suddenly an intuition about many of the nebulous questions which at first buzzed around my head. Many of the housework items which at first seemed so staggering are now mere incidentals, even pleasant.
Really, when I went into the sweltering, sooty heat of Boston on Tuesday (I mean Monday) I felt infinitely sorry for the wet, harried, hot, wilted people plodding along the streets. When I think of going around in comfortable shorts and halters all day, and being visually exposed to glorious scenery, I laugh at my former moanings. I would get claustraphobia anywhere else.
Today I went down to the beach for an hour in the morning with Marcia and five of our charges. After lunch, Pinny and Joey were both very sleepy, so while they took an hour’s nap, I lay out on My Porch in a halter and got a lovely placid rest and sunburn. Every now and then I would look across the green tree tops and swoop of lawn to the blue blue ocean beyond. If I lived by the sea I would never be really sad. I get an immense sense of eternity and peace from the ocean. I can lose myself in staring at it hour after hour.
Funny thing. I really don’t want this summer to be over. I am really enjoying myself. I look wonderful, too, even tanner. Seems you can always be ruddy, no matter how tan you are.
Marcia brought her one over tonight and we all had supper together, after which we took her Holly and my Freddy and Pinny down to the beach for a twilight climb on the rocks. Marcia and I charlestoned on the sand and ran and played with them – much fun. Both of us are getting along fine. She let me read John Hodge’s letter which was his usual impression-making sort. I feel no pangs about his quicksilver interest – or about the fact that he may come to see her this weekend. He isn’t worth getting jealous over . . . scatterbrained goof that he is. However, any boy I really care about, will wait a long time before I start to rave about my “cute little blonde roommate.” “Forewarned is for forearmed.”
I had great fun driving back with the boys – hope the fan didn’t break on the way back. I gather Rodney was much chagrined because of the noise the car was making – he is a sweet little guy.
Pinny responds well to much special love. Joey can now say “Syl”. Freddy gave me four good-night-kisses – two for my neck, “because it’s so long.” So I am quite happy about life in general.
Could you please mail me your camera and a roll or two of film. I am looking my best, and would like to record it.
Love to you all,
your sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Thursday 26 July 1951*
ALS with envelope,
Indiana University
Thursday
Dear Mother . . .
At present I am in a tired but amused state. It is 3 p.m., and after a rather breathless day, I have an hour to myself, which I am spending basking in the sun and letterwriting on the front porch off my room. Marcia, all children save Joanne, and the grownups, are going off for supper on the ‘Mistral,” the 66 foot yacht, so I have the dubious compensation of an hour now, and another one after Joanne goes to bed.
Saturday we all went for a day’s cruise on the ‘Mistral.’ I was allowed to come on condition that I keep a hawk-like vigilance over Joanne. So I did. Never have I seen anything like that great schooner! A crew of three, including a young cook, mans the boat at all times. A comfortable cockpit, with room for a luncheon table
and about 10 people is at the back, under the wheel. The under cabins can sleep twelve; there are two toilets; a neat galley, and great sails; plus a mahogany and brass ladder to let down to swim from. Imagine, if you can, clipping along over the blue waves in sun and wind, calmly chatting and drinking milk or cocktails. Of course I felt something like a puppet on a string, dashing after the slippery Joanne who wanted to walk where she couldn’t stand up by her self. Much time was spent marveling at the opulence which was so nonchalantly absorbed by the Blodgett’s and their kin. I enjoyed chatting with the cook, by name of Warren, who goes to a school of drama design in Boston.
We moored at Gloucester and dove off into the icy water, swimming around the young children bobbing in their life preservers. Lunch -- a chicken salad ringed with olives,* tiny sandwiches, homemade cake pudding – with any drink from milk to gingerale to beer to iced coffee was served by a uniformed Warren.
Tan, sleepy, drunk with salt air, we headed home after being on the water from 11-6.
But, me dear, if you think that was an experience, listen to an account of Tuesday, our DAY OFF.* After chores, we packed a great picnic, books, bathing suits et al, and headed off on our Raleigh’s to Marblehead. After an hour of biking up the sunny, narrow, antique hilly streets, with hollyhocks blooming from cracks between pavement and houses, we locked our bikes together on a dock, rented a rowboat, and set out for the high seas. Marcia squatted on the stern seat, reading aloud* while I pulled. God, it was good to feel my arms yank rhythmically, cutting oars through the great green swells. Objective: a deserted island* far off the coast – once a children’s Hospital site. After two solid hours of rowing, we reached our objective. I must have been in great condition, for a side from a few callouses, I didn’t feel a bit tired from my 2 hour stint. We explored the deserted houses, and the rotted buildings, eerie with the echoing mewing cries of wheeling gulls. After an hour we left, pulling back against a strong wind. A five hour journey cost us $1.25 apiece, and was more than worth it – exercise, sun, sea, and experience.
While Marcia was in buying us hamburg for a cookout supper, a young ruddy sunburnt fellow came up to me, looking a bit lost. “I say,” quoth he, “can one buy a soda here?” “Sure,” quoth I. I accepted his genial invitation to join him in a cooling float, and discovered that he was down from Canada for a week, resting from a series of 22 yacht races . . . staying at the Eastern.* Marcia joined us, and the ensuing gaiety prompted us to ask him to come on our cookout and let us make supper for him. So he sportingly drove us out in his own ford to the Castle Rock Beach of our last day. A bracing half hour swim in the crystal salt water whetted our 3 respective appetites . . . after which the sizzle of hamburg and warmed up corn niblets and toasted marshmellows tasted delectable. At sunset we drove to watch a race in the Harbor. Marcia and I biked home, happy to have had such a rich day and a chance to practice American hospitality on a hungry Canadian. Arthur Gordon Stanway, was the name of the ruddy, snubnosed chap.
Yesterday he dropped over for a moment to sample my Molasses Cookies which he approved of. Last night found me sipping gingerale on the old verandah of the Eastern Yacht Club. Unfortunately Gordon got very drunk, as did the people we were with. So I made him stop his shiny Ford and let me drive, while he hung his head out of the window, clearing his head of fumes. I was as usual, annoyed and amused – he was so much fun when sober, but all my wit and clear thinking was lost on his soggy self.
So, I said, leaving him wavering unsteadily on the steps of 144 BB, I’ll try anything once. At least the Mayo’s could see I looked nice dressed up in my yellow dress. And I enjoyed getting a bit more driving in, also free gingerale, coffee and crackers and atmosphere.
Only casulty: a Manhattan spilt down the front of my white topper, which I shall send to the cleaners.
Dick, by the way, was as bewildered by my letter as I was by him. Couldn’t see what bothered me. So all is peaceful on the Cape Coast.
Love you very much,
Your overworked minor,
Sylvia
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Saturday 4 August 1951*
ALS with envelope,
Indiana University
Saturday
Dear Mum . . .
Today is what would be termed, in the materialistic jargon peculiar to Americans – a “million-dollar day.” It is now eleven, and from the tennis courts comes the enticing twang of ball smacking against racket. In my room sleeps a female weekend guest, still drowsing from a late night.
In spite of getting in at 2 o’clock this morning, I arose before eight and whipped up breakfast per usual – when I think of the langorous life some of these females must lead, and compare it to my working existence, I am moved to a wry smile.
The occasion last night was a double date for a “beach party” with Marcia. Through a guy she knows in Marblehead we both got blind dates. So, clad in dungarees and shirts we sat in Blodgett’s living room listening to records from “The King and I.” Donald Blodgett and two of his friends were the only ones in the big mansion, as all the rest of the family, including Marcia’s two eldest – are off on a week’s cruise. The boys were actually nice and civil for a change. They had cooked their own supper and sat in the living room and talked with us until our dates came.
I ended up with a junior at Dartmouth* who is a life guard for the Corinthian yacht club.* We all went down to the beach, where many other couples had congregated and it turned out that my date had a guitar and could strum out songs like nothing at all. I actually drank some cold beer which tasted pretty good. If it does me no harm, I can get along with a couple of cans in the course of an evening. What think you?
At any rate, rain chased us to the home of the hostess where Marcia made a big hit by jitterbugging impromptu-ishly with her date.
My boy liked skiing better than anything else in the world – but he was so gifted in all physical attributes – such as swimming, football, skiing . . . and Charlestoning, singing, pool playing – and so on, that I guess I bored him, perhaps. But I realized how much of the active life I’ve missed. Ski jumping must be a great religion. At least I had a great time being with a good-looking male again.
We adjourned to Blodgett’s play room where three couples played records. Seems to me I’m relatively dumb about judging people – but an athletic boy like my date said “Oh, I know what you want. Security and someone to tell you adventure stories.” Not a bad shot, either. A better judge of character than I by a long shot.
Yet I suddenly envied him very much – for the life he leads. Boys live so much harder than girls, and they know so much more about life. Learning the limitations of a woman’s sphere is no fun at all.
And so that was that. I really had a good time, and so did Marcia.
Marcia has a few days vacation this week, as her child is going off to join the family, so she’ll be going up to Maine, and not coming home. Also, I won’t come home Tuesday, as I’ll probably be left with two children while Mrs. M. takes the eldest off. Probably I can get off Thursday night and come back Friday night. Thus I could sleep one morning, anyway. I’ll call you about Tuesday night to tell you definitely. I could get a bus to Boston and come home at night if Grammy didn’t want to call for me. Then, if Friday dawns nice, we could all head for a picnic and day at the beach around here – and drop me at the Mayo’s after supper – thus killing two birds with one stone.
We’ll see how it works out –
Love –
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Thursday 9 August 1951*
ALS with envelope,
Indiana University
Thursday night
Dear Mummy –
I can’t tell you how much our stay at 26 Elmwood meant to me this last Tuesday. You did a faultless job at having the house cleanswept and uncluttered. I love every corner of that dear place with all my heart. I was wondering if my stay in this mansion would sour or embitter me in regard to my relativ
ely small lodgings. On the contrary – I associate home with all the self-possession and love which is an intrinsic part of my nature, and find a great overwhelming pleasure in coming back from my travels in the realm of adult independence to lay my head in blissful peace and security under my own hospitable roof. You and grammy and grampy and Warren are so lovely to be around after long months away from all companions save Marcia. Thanks again for being such a dear and understanding mummy. Marcia loves you too.
Here, I have talked over the end of my stay with Mrs. Mayo, and have agreed to keep on working till the end of the cruise – so I should be home on or before Sept. 1. The few days I can manage. After all, I couldn’t walk out on her two days before she came back.
I am much more at home here than ever before. Yesterday it rained, and Marcia and I had Holly and Pinny help us make oatmeal cookies. Today, I worked all morning, figuring I might as well get pleasure out of completing tasks. This afternoon was the doctor’s time off, so they took the children for a drive, leaving me time for a quick swim at the end of the street plus a chance to read an article on the Far East in the new issue of Mademoiselle.*
Hope to see you all on Tuesday morn. If it’s not nice, call me up that morning and cancel our trip . . . no sense for you to come down when it rains.
Love,
Sivvy
PS. – How about digging up the black & gold yarn in my closet – looking up the “Shining hour pattern” – and making me an Xmas present –?
TO Aurelia Schober Plath