by Sylvia Plath
Now, reassure me that you understand: 1) I love you still, always, no matter what happens, whether mails fail, or I can’t find post offices, or whatever; 2) I want you to see Bernice and enjoy her as a fine person & give yourself a chance to see how you really feel about her, because I am far from being the strict, rigid judge of yourself that you are and feel that rules should grow from natural feelings and not be imposed on them. Very simply, if you, in your new mature strength, find she is the “choice” for you, make it with my blessing! As long as you are happy about it truly, I will be, too!
Now, for a little about Paris. After the first horror of our plane flight being canceled and crossing a rough channel with people vomiting everywhere in white enamel basins, and being locked out of my hotel room by a careless roommate so that I had to sleep on the floor with strangers, I moved from my first hotel, where I had caused several rows on account of said roommate, who also took off for Italy with the key to the room, and came to this nice blue room, with blue velvet curtains, which is only 400 francs a night and near the Seine, and the Metro, and life in general. I have fallen in love with the city. It is all light, airy, spacious, with the white-grays of a Utrillo* painting. Christmas, I went to services in Notre Dame, with its flower-decked altar to the Virgin, exquisite rose windows, and enchanting gargoyles. I have walked everywhere: up the Champs Elyssés, of course, at night, to the lighted Arc de Triomphe, past countless blazing shops; up the steep, quaint hill of Montmartre, throught the artist quarters, under the magnificent, white, lighted dome of Sacre Coeur; through place Pigalle (which is like Times Square, N.Y.C., or Piccadilly) where the bleached, painted whores in furs walk everywhere, and I’ve overheard men bargaining, and even had a whore scream at me for looking at her, but I couldn’t help it: I have to stare at everything! The most beautiful sight was the Sainte Chapelle next to the Palais de Justice which I must show you some day: it is very perfect Gothic, pure, soaring, made almost completely of stained glass: a veritable jewel box of blazing colored light: Ive browsed in bookstalls along the Seine, drunk wine, cinzano, orange pressé (squeezed at the table) in countless sidewalk cafes, eaten oysters & snails, seen the Paris Ballet of Roland Petit, a play in French by Emlyn Williams (“Le Monsieur qui attend”*), and 2 good French movies:* am trying for the French Riviera this week: these are just notes to give you an idea. The rest will wait until I see you next Friday. Please, keep on writing, as it means a lot. And know that I love you no matter what.
À bientôt, your own,
sylvia
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Friday 30 December 1955*
TLS with envelope,
Indiana University
Saturday p.m*
December 30th
Dearest mother . . .
I am sitting at present in the lobby of a Paris hotel surrounded by wonderfully strange people all running in and out talking French rapidly. Where to begin? I have been here almost twelve days and am now packed and ready to leave for Nice, on the Cote d’Azur to spend a few days staring at the Mediterranean and hoping to find the sun there also: every day I’ve been here it’s been pouring rain! But somehow, in spite of a fantastic nightmarish arrival (plane flight was canceled because of bad weather in France, boat crossing was really stormy and rough, with countless people vomiting all over the deck in the white enamel basins: I was only a little groggy and managed to come through fine with brandy; and a late arrival, after being on the road about 15 hours, having my roommate from Whitstead, Jane Baltzell, who brightened the way by sharing these experiences, ask if I’d share the room Nat LaMar had reserved with her and her falling asleep inside, with the key in the lock, so all my yells & poundings wouldn’t wake her; so I had to sleep in one bed with two very vivacious, friendly girls from Switzerland who were studying English at Cambridge) . . . all this, and the fact that my period waited till now to descend, a week late: and yet, I have loved Paris, and feel at last that I know it passing fair. In spite of the fact I have had one or two real waves of homesickness, I’ve been going regularly to the American Express, where I’ve got about 20 or 25 letters and cards so far, including a check for $25 from dear Mrs. Prouty, and your thoughtful registered letter & money. All this has made Paris seem friendly and more like home. I really don’t know how to begin telling you all the wonderful things I’ve done and seen!
First of all, Sassoon has been a godsend. He’s taken me all the places women can’t go alone, at night, and spoken French a good deal with me, and helped settle some of the heated confusion at my hotel when Jane calmly set off to Italy with the key to our room: she is very casual, that girl. Anyhow, I’ve walked miles and miles, along the gray Seine, browsing in the countless bookstalls which sell original watercolors and sketches and all kinds of paper=covered books and prints; I’ve seen the beautiful jeweled women with exquisite furs at the theater: have seen a French translation of Emlyn Williams excellent suspense play: “Le Monsieur qui attend”, the Paris Ballet of Roland Petit (two parts being my favorites: a legend of a young girl who found faith and love in a wolf instead of her fickle fiancé, and “La Chambre”,* a surrealistic psychological ballet in a circle of action about a murder and a vampire, most magnificently danced), and last night it was the Comédie Française* to see an exquisitely moving “Jeanne D’Arc” by the French writer Charles Peguy. I’ve really had to concentrate to understand what was going on, as the French speak very fast when moved (and they are always moved) and the divisions between words are difficult to hear, but I have really improved in my week or more here.
Perhaps I’ve enjoyed most just walking and feasting my eyes: Sassoon took me to the Place Pigalle at night where all the painted whores are, and I was really overcome to see how they worked: it’s like a play itself, and most fascinating. Everywhere on the main Boulevards there are all kinds of booths and stands set up on the wide sidewalks, selling trinkets, colored bowls of candy and nuts and marrons glace, lottery tickets, neckties, and mounds of oranges, grapes, bananas and dates and figs which I’ve been indulging in like mad: never ate so many oranges!
I’ve walked up the brilliantly lighted Champs Elyssés at night past flashing cinemas and expensive shops, to the illuminated Arc de Triomphe, wandered down the Rue de la Paix with its jewelry stores and esoteric shops, climbed the steep crooked streets to the summit of the hill of Montmartre under the blazing white dome of Sacre Coeur, the fabulous bohemian quarter, and eaten oysters and drunk wine at a little cafe in the Place du Tertre, which all the artists paint. Everywhere outside the multitudinous cafes are open boxes of lemons and oysters and snails, keeping cold (it is colder than London here!) and enticing to the passer=by. Even the faces on the street are fascinating: many Africans, and beautiful young people (that’s what I miss in London . . . everyone is so un-chic and dowdy and formal). Here, the hotel people love their work, and the waiters too, and at one little cafe on my street, which is on the Left Bank in the Oriental & Greek quarter, the manageress of a little cafe gave a bowl of soup & a stick of bread to an old, toothless beggar who, she told us, was once a clown in the circus and has gone mad, but is very harmless.
Let me tell you about Christmas day: Sassoon took me to Notre Dame in the morning where we sat in the dark, enormous interior of the church near the shining altar to the Virgin and child, covered with pink and white flowers: the purple, blue, red and cold rose windows of the transepts were an aesthetic feast, and the mammoth organ sounded really like the voice of god. I thought especially of you at home, and the people I love, and was most moved by the clusters of thin tapers burning on the altars and the blazing jeweled colors of the windows. I also walked about the enchanting Isle de la Cité in the middle of the Seine, and marveled at the exquisite jewel-Gothic structure of the Sainte Chapelle in the Palais de Justice, where there seems to be nothing at all holding together the soaring stained=glass windows, which lift one’s eyes upward in a dizzy leap of vivid, painted glass.
I’ve walked through the Louvre, too, and seen t
he Winged Victory atop a flight of marble steps, powerful enough to soar through the very rook of that enormous museum. The Mona Lisa smiled her mystic golden smile at me and I found some of my favorites: “Virgin of the Rocks” and several thin, torturous El Grecos, a marvelous anonymous Pieta d’Avignon, Breughel, and my beloved Flemish school, with the meticulous, loving detail. Went also to a wonderful exhibit of the Impressionists which you would have enjoyed at the Orangerie, a small museum in the Jardin deS Tuileries and saw much excellent Cezanne (fell in love with the blending blue=greens and subtle touches of peach in his “Lac D’annecy”), and many familiar Van Goghs (Sunflowers, Man with Cut Ear,* etc.) and Gaugins, with their weird sallow greens & yellows and purply reds against the golden & brown native flesh. Also a few good drawings by Picasso, an enchanting Henri Rousseau in his primitive style. After this I had a wonderful time with Richard in the Garden of the Tuileries where we spent the whole afternoon watching the children playing with their new Christmas toys: roller skates, hoops, shiny new dolls, bikes, swings, sailboats on the boat=pond: the Jardin is made for children: long rows of trees, countless statues, swings, merrygoround, donkey=carts, ponies, and even the famous daily puppet show which we went to amid the little excited children who yelled and talked to the magnificent puppets which I found utterly enchanting. Oh, it is all so amazing here, and so lovely. I’ve seen all the tourists want to see and so much more, because I’ve had time to live, to browse in art shops, to nibble roasted chestnuts on the wonderful efficient Metro, to enjoy my blue velvet room which overlooks a noisy street of little foreign restaurants and costs only $1.20 a night, with 50¢ extra for coffee and croissons in bed! Will write more later from Nice. Meanwhile, all my love to all of you, and to all our dear friends. I miss you, but am learning to live through trial and error: everything new is hard, as well as exciting! Saw Olivier’s “Richard 3rd” movie* in London & a terrific musical called “Salad Days”. Ate like a queen.
Bye for now & all my love to you –
sivvy
PS. Happy New Year!
1956
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Sunday 1 January 1956*
ALS (picture postcard),
Indiana University
PRINCIPAUTE DE MONACO Vue générale / Au loin le Cap Martin et l’Italie.
Jan. 1
Dearest mother . . .
I began the New Year on an express train which sped through the night, away from rain & clouds into clear moonlight shining on the Med, a red sun rising out of an incredibly blue sea, palm trees sprouting by pink & yellow villas, and, sunrise on snowcapped mountain peaks. I can hardly believe my eyes! Climbed the steep hill overlooking the blue “Baie des Anges”, all sparkling pink & white steps winding up to summit – cacti, strange palms, illuminated by night, flower & fruit markets, and the blessed “Cote d’Azur” at my feet. Nice is exquisite – am going to feast on color & sun – still crisp & cool – but wonderfully invigorating – more later –
love –
sivvy
TO J. Mallory Wober
Sunday 1 January 1956*
ALS (picture postcard),
Cambridge University
REFLETS DE LA COTE D’AZUR. JUAN-LES-PINS. 06.997.15. – La Plage.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Dear Mallory –
I changed years last night aboard an express train cutting through France to the Côte d’Azur: a red sun rose out of an incredibly blue sea as I ate breakfast en route, practically screaming with joy at the feast of color before me: pink & yellow villas, green palms & cacti, sparkling white casinos & vivid blue-inlets. Am staying at Nice for a few days – climbing quaint steep hills of palms & fountains to see sunrise on the snowcapped mountains – walking along the quais at night – all is unbelievably new, colorful & lovely.
My best love to you –
sylvia
Par Avion
PS – Flight changed to Sat 7th same time same station. OK?
TO J. Mallory Wober
Thursday 5 January 1956
Telegram with envelope,
Cambridge University
MALLORY WOBER 71 WENTWORTH ROAD LONDONNW11
STRANDED AMID RIVERA SUN PALMS ORANGES STOP PLANE CANCELLED ARRIVING LONDON MONDAY AFTERNOON WILL CALL THEN AU REVOIR =
SYLVIA +
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Saturday 7 January 1956
AL,* Indiana University
Sylvia Plath
Avenue Victor Hugo
Nice
France
Dearest Mother –
I was going to write you a letter but decided to make two installments on giant postcards instead so you could glimpse the color I’ve been surrounded with this last week! It is incredibly lovely here, and the air is clear, crisp, and pure, while the sun is warm. I cancelled my plane to stay till tomorrow a.m.
Guess what! I’ve learned to drive a “lambretta”--magnificent, comforable, safe Italian motor scooter--ideal for good weather. One is out of doors in the sun, perfect view, powerful on steep hills, easy to park, stop, look! I rode to Jaun-les Pins for my first trial trip, supped cheaply and well (You can get wonderful wine, steak, sauces, hors d’oeuvres, etc., if you look, for about $1.50 at most). Then, Thursday, to the Italian frontier! Take a map and follow the sea route, where the road signs are all “Z,” fantastically steep, drop straight to sea; blinding blue-azure, pink towns, Italian Alps beyond hills--palms, orange trees, olive groves, terraced flower gardens--through Monaco. Stopped to visit Monte Carlo, watched fascinating roulette games. Amiable croupier explained game. On to Italian border, just to go over to Vingtimilia--“Riviera of Flowers”--scarlet, red, yellow against pastel stucco villas. Biked back at sunset through Monaco, Menton, Beaulieu, Villefranche--exquisite in blue niches of bays! Like traveling outdoors on easy chair. (continued on next card)
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Saturday 7 January 1956
ALS (picture postcard, photocopy),
printed from Letters Home
0-20 G. ÈZE-VILLAGE (A-M). La Lanterne du Palais du Prince du Suède.
2
Saturday – con
Dear mother . . .
yesterday was about the most lovely in my life – started out on motor-scooter along famous wide “promenade des anglais” of nice, with its outdoor cafés, splendid baroque facades, rows of palms, strolling musicians and headed inland to Vence, where I planned to see the beautiful recent Matisse cathedral of my art magazine which I’ve loved via picture for years. How can I describe the beauty of the country? Everything so small, close, exquisite – & fertile – terraced gardens on steep slopes of rich red earth, orange & lemon trees olive orchards – tiny pink & peach houses to Vence: small, on a sun-warm hill, uncommercial, slow, peaceful. Walked to Matisse cathedral – small, pure, clean-cut. white, with blue-tile roof sparkling in sun. But shut! only open to public 2 days a week. A kindly talkative peasant told me stories of how rich people came daily in large cars from Italy, Germany, Sweden, etc., & were not admitted, even for large sums of money. I was desolate, & wandered to the back of the walled nunnery where I could see a corner of the chapel, & sketched it, feeling like alice outside the garden, watching the white doves & orange trees. Then I went back to the front & stared with my face through the barred gate. I began to cry, I knew it was so lovely inside, pure white, with the sun through blue, yellow & green stained windows. Then I heard a voice “Ne pleurez plus. Entrez.” & the mother superior let me in after denying all the wealthy people in cars. I just knelt in the heart of the sun & the colors of sky, sea & sun in the pure white heart of the chapel. “vous êtes si gentille” I stammered. The nun smiled “C’est la miséricorde de Dieu.” It was.
Love
Sylvia
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 10 January 1956
TLS (a
erogramme),
Indiana University
Tuesday evening
January 10, 1956
Dearest of mothers . . .
Happy New Year! It seems almost impossible to be sitting back in my lovely room at Whitstead again, with three magnificent packed weeks in France behind me. So much to tell! I feel unbelievably refreshed, seething with ideas, rested, ready to write & work hard and deeply for the next three months. The academic year is ideal for my system, which works in large cycles, needing frequent alternations between intense periods of work and play. My New Year mood is so different from the rather lonely, weary, depressed and slightly fearful state in which I left Cambridge a mere three weeks ago. Coming “back” here for this first time made me feel this is truly home, and my vacation has given me an invaluable perspective on my life, work and purpose here which I had lost in the complex over-stimulation of the first semester. I now feel strong and sure. There is nothing like experience to give one widened horizons and confidence!
First of all, how wise you were to send my beautiful check from the “LYRIC” here instead of to Paris. Arriving last night, after an arduous two-day trip up from Nice, I found just the lift I needed, like a second Christmas. Also a beautiful signed edition of “The Misanthrope” from dear Gordon, a sweet New England Calendar from Mrs. Freeman, and a pile of gay-covered copies of my blessed “New Yorker”, full of poems and good stories and all the tidbits of Americana I love so well. You have no idea, by the way, how enormously much this weekly present means to me! Spent a whole evening reading stacks of them over coffee with two other American girls here, and they were so happy and hungry for their own copies that they both sent off for subscriptions then and there: you see how powerful suggestion is!