by Sylvia Plath
Much, much love –
Sivvy
PS: Have sent Warren home with your kind check for $100 which, thank heavens, we didn’t have to use; do put it toward our wedding fund. Also want to send you my $50 Atlantic check for deposit in my bank account. How shall I make it out? “For deposit only by Mrs. A. S. Plath?”
xxxx
sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Tuesday 11 September 1956
TLS (aerogramme),
Indiana University
Tuesday afternoon
September 11, 1956
Dearest mother . . .
It was so good to get your wonderful fat letter with the snapshots of you looking so lovely, and all the news: I am so glad dear Frankie is better and feel much more relieved about him anyway now that he is leading a quieter life. Your quaint green map of Boston is now hanging up in our room as I write, and I spent a time going over the landmarks with Ted. He is in London for the day and night on some errands, so I got up early at six this morning and made him a hearty breakfast; rain and wind are howling outside, and I sit cosy upstairs before the picture windows, writing at poems and stories.* After the first week of adjustment, I am as happy here as I have ever been in my life: Ted and I take a long walk each day up over the moors (It’s generally rainy, or at least overcast) and never have I loved country so! All you can see is dark hills of heather stretching toward the horizon, as if you were striding on top of the world; last night at sunset the horizontal light turned us both luminous pink as we hiked in waterproof boots in the wuthering free wind, starting up rabbits that flicked away with a white flag of tail, staring back at the black-faced, gray furred moor sheep that graze, apparently wild, and with their curling horns looking like primeval yellow-eyed druid monsters. I never thought I could like any country as well as the ocean, but these moors are really even better, with the great luminous emerald lights changing always, and the animals and wildness. Read “Wuthering Heights” again here, and really felt it this time more than ever.
Ted is the most wonderful man in the world; I am constantly incredulous with joy at how much I love him and how magnificently well we work together, writing all morning, me typing out his stories from dictation in the afternoon for a few hours each day (just finished triplicate 20-page version of lovely “O’Kelley’s Angel” which we’ll send to New Yorker when I’ve typed two other fables to go with it---“The Callum Makers” and one about the life of a boy-boar: “Bartholomew Pig”)* Ted is so dear, and handsome and loving and brilliant, every minute with him is a rare delight; our lives will be very highly disciplined, rough-clothed and casual, and I’m sure some day we both shall be close to wealthy. We are so close to each other in our writing, and both need much rest and leisure, and are perfectly happy and self-contained alone. I can hardly believe I have such a perfect magnificent husband; I can’t for a minute think of him as someone “other” than the male counterpart of myself, always just that many steps ahead of me intellectually and creatively so that I feel very feminine and admiring. There is an animal farm across the street where we’ve been seeing baby pigs, calves, kittens and puppies; I really want my children to be brought up in the country, so you must get a little place too somewhere in the country or by the sea (we’ll buy it when we’re rich) where we can alternate leaving our countless children with you and Mrs. Hughes while we take vacations or travel. Our life will be a constant adventure and we’ll have a fine old age; this year will be a tough discipline but I need it, and so does Ted. We’ve talked much about our wedding in June and both of us are determined to have it; we both long for a kind of symbolic “town” ceremony, and it may be the last time I see my friends and relatives together for many many years. So plan on it definitely. Any money we earn will be put toward our summer on the Cape---do let me know how to make out my $50 check from the blessed Atlantic so you can deposit in my bankrupt account as a first drop in the bucket. We’ve decided to cross in separate cabins on the ship as fiancées, so you have nothing to worry about there; I’ll write to the ship company for reservations early this fall; hope to make Sat. the 29th of June our wedding day, but may have to wait till the next Saturday, depending on ship. Why not make engagement announcement some time, any time, in October: use happy ¾ picture of me: copy form of others in paper: Me: Smith B.A. summa cum laude 1955; Fulbright to study for Honours B.A. in Eng. Lit. at Cambridge. 1956-7 Ted: Graduated from Pembroke College, Cambridge University in 1954 with Honours B.A. in English and in Archaeology and Anthropology; served two years in RAF before that; worked for J. Arthur Rank studios at Pinewood after. Do send me a copy. Tell those silly ones who think I should get married here that a ship is a hell of a place for a honeymoon, no privacy, no peace; I have no one here to give me away and naturally want my lifelong friends standing by it; it should be easy to shut them up, there are so many arguments against being married here. Why don’t I make out a list of names and addresses for announcements over Christmas . . . doubt if I’ll have time till then; want simple ceremony with gala reception for all, lots of food & plenty of drink; Ted wants that too very much. Your daughter is married to a genius and a great hercules and the most darling man that ever walked. Cant wait to get to America and cook for him. Am sending three stories to Mlle* with fingers crossed: my stories. We are full of projects, plans and love. Want to see and hold our stainless steel before we choose; where can I go in London to do so & see samples? Do write. VIVE THE 1957 WEDDING OF THE WRITING HUGHES! All is perfectly quiet on the British front. Ted’s family’s dear. We both love you; can’t wait to share our life & times with you in America. Life is work and joy.
Much much love to you & Warrie –
Sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Friday 21 September 1956
TLS (aerogramme),
Indiana University
Friday morning
September 21, 1956
Deareast lovely mother . . .
How we have loved your long, newsy pink letters! So much is happening, hanging fire, that I now, these last 10 days before I return to Cambridge, feel rather torn; I am actually almost eager to be back and plunged in work, for as you know, I generally leave places a week early, and am going through my worst homesickness for Ted now. Elly Friedman, the dear, is up here now, and Ted and I got her an exquisite room at the most magnificent quaint old stone inn, low beamed, lined with books: Ted and I would love to buy it. She is the best visitor: perfectly independent and leaves us to work until late afternoon, and I’ve had some good long talks with her which have caught me up on Smith. Imagine, there was a rumor among the seniors that I was coming back to teach there this year! Probably one of my teachers confided to a student, and this got around. I should think, if I do well at Cambridge this year, I should have no worry of a job there. But I have decided very definitely against applying for a job for Ted there too for many important reasons: first, I would have the responsibility for him, proving him, in a way, and my ties there are very emotional and deep, with place and professors both; in my first year of marriage and teaching I don’t want to stack the odds against me; and the girls at Smith are unscrupulous (witness the two professors, still on the faculty, who have married three Smith girls in succession). From the things Elly told me this year about the intolerable gossip and intense, irresponsible flirting with a new young one-legged (!) creative writing professor* (who decided to leave even though he was asked back), I would be absurd to throw Ted into such hysterical, girlish adulation; I wouldn’t have a minute’s peace, because I know how college girls talk and romanticize endlessly and how they throw themselves at men professors, be they ancient or one-legged. So I shall apply for Ted at Amherst; possibly Harvard-Radcliffe; or even Middlebury. But, Ideally, I’d like to be near a big city while living in the country, and Smith (also Radcliffe, of course) would be ideal; I really feel they must want me; so if Ted doesn’t get in Amherst, he’s perfectl
y willing to take another kind of job on radio or TV station or whatever, and, if he is successful writing TV scripts, he could do that at home. But I refuse to give my married life and independence completely to Smith; I don’t want both of us to have to be tied to the same faculty meetings, social-life and Smith-girl gossip. Just got a really nice letter from the editor of the Smith Alumnae Quarterly,* telling me they’re publishing my funny article on the Bulganin-Khrushchev party* at the Claridges (I don’t get paid, of course, but it’s too late for any other place, and I feel a certain loyalty to them; do tell Mrs. Prouty to look out for it; she’ll love it). Mrs. Prouty sent me a lovely letter* about my Atlantic poem, too, after I’d written her a long letter about it, Ted, etc. About Mr. Rice, naturally I’d like to have him know if he can keep a secret and if he’s sure not to object or suggest a mere reception instead of wedding; we want no risks about the wedding and are determined to have it; so if there is any chance he object, don’t tell him. I’d love a shell pink dress, or white with pink slip or something. Also, would be delighted to have reception at Mrs. Cantor’s place. Want to have delectable drinks (with alcohol in spite of her Christian science!) and much much food both meats and sweets. I’d like all stainless steel kitchenware, brown-and-aqua baking dishes; and, if possible, a white and forest-green bathroom towel set (the color of warren’s bedroom wallpaper; we hate pastels, except aqua, around the house. Like striking lovely modern. also like black & white diamond-patterned towels Mrs. Cantor has – very striking –
You can imagine how weary I am of living off Other People’s kitchens and houses; Mrs. Hughes is a messy pottering kitchen-keeper and atrocious cook: burnt tough meat, starchy leaden pies and biscuits, and it is all I can do not to rearrange her sloppy cupboards etc. I long for my own privacy and pantry more than anything and will go just wild with joy over kitchen strainers, pans, egg beaters, etc. I cook for Ted and me and manage all right, but it is not the same. If I get through this hard year, I feel I deserve a wedding and gifts and reception and honeymoon for a summer the worst way; it has not always been easy; we will really begin our proper married life with our wedding next June. About the date: I’ll have to write the Fulbright, then the ship, to find if I can get allowance to go back earlier than their return-ship schedule begins and if Ted & I can get reservations, before I know if we can make the 29th or will have to put it off till the next Saturday. Ted has not a definite job yet in Spain but will leave with his millionaire uncle on October 1st or thereabout and be settled, I hope, by the time I come down the second week in December; his uncle is so queer, with his devil wife and mad daughter: fifty pounds gift to Ted would not touch him, yet Ted must struggle on without any help; if I ever have money, I shall want my immediate family to have a share in my good fortune. Ted, by the way, has an audition for reading modern poetry at the BBC in London next week (they heard a tape-recording of his reading of Gawain & the Green Knight which he made at a friend’s* and liked it); I am going down with him, fingers crossed that they’ll want to make a program recording of him reading and broadcast it. I have great hopes for Ted in T-V scripts, too. If only Amherst would accept him, it would be so great. Advise me about how to apply for applications. Much much love to you and Warren.
Love,
sivvy
TO Aurelia Schober Plath
Friday 28 September 1956
TLS (aerogramme),
Indiana University
Friday afternoon
September 28, 1956
Dearest mummy . . .
Received your kindly sent batch of snapshots with the dear letter--- grieve that I didn’t have my hair down and don’t think they do Ted or me justice, although Warren is great--be careful of showing one with Ted & me--he has ring on left hand for sharp eyes. Love overshoes you sent; quiet and comfortable. So glad you aren’t renting room. DON’T! I know from repeated experience that for sensitive persons--like you and me--for whom the home is the last refuge of rest, peace and privacy, it is impossible to live and share kitchens with strangers: one is always wondering “Are they through with the bathroom now? Can I shove their stuff over in the icebox to make room for mine?” Even if you got a quiet old maid who stuck to her room, it would be a constant bother. But a couple---no, no. Even with inlaws, I find housekeeping a trial---living in Mrs. Hughes’ small messy kitchen is such a bother, with her being such a bad cook, too---can’t wait till I’m home and in the brief days Ted & I are in Wellesley, I’d love you to give me recipes of our favorite thing you make so well---corn & fish chowders, apple pie, apricot-jam halfmoons, etc. I long to make Ted’s daily menus a treat and surprise with orange juice for breakfast, chicken livers, homemade cookies--molasses, toll house oatmeal, etc. Tell potential gift-givers by the way that neither Ted or I smoke or eat candy! I dream of toasters, pressure cookers, strainers, a blender, gay aprons, rough modern linen or woven mats, kitchen utensils, towels, sheets, blankets, one sturdy set of pottery for every day and better china for dinners--I’ll pick out patters early this fall on a shopping Saturday in London.
Am sure I’ll have earned enough money by spring to help considerably with wedding expenses---never felt so creative, so many projects out: this year, I’m concentrating on my novel of Cambridge life and a book of poems for the Yale Younger Poets Series; Ted has a book of poems & children’s animal stories waiting to be typed & sent out, and is working on a book of adult fables. We wait the news from 6 stories and 60 poems (half each) sent out. I’ll be back in Cambridge hard at work Monday October 1st---have passed “blues” period and am now dying to get there & plunge into a stoic year of study. Will try like fury to get Ted a teaching job at Amherst---they like young writer-teachers & I’ll wait a month or two to see what he gets published. I shouldn’t have much trouble at Smith, I think, if I get a good degree here. We spent two days in London & just got back---very auspicious, Ted having audition reading modern poetry for the B.B.C. I was thrilled---I made him read one of his own poems stuck between Yeats & Hopkins. The dear man judging---a Mr. Carne-Ross,* sat with me in the listening room, saying “perfect”, “superb”. Ted was fine. The man wants him to do a broadcast of Yeats, if the Committee approves, and perhaps they’ll also approve his reading his own poems---over the erudite 3rd Program, this would be! The pay is excellent for this, and we wait word of the committee’s decision eagerly---it would be another feather to his letter of application for a teaching job. When we’re famous enough, we want to make reading tours in America. My mind seethes with ideas for stories---my novel preoccupies me, and I am spending this year, daily, doing a detailed notebook of cambridge with sketches, trying to sell chapters as stories, finish writing of it next summer. I need this year badly to read, study & write. What bliss not to have to consider any social life! I am really a recluse at heart!
Elly Friedman has come and gone---she promised to call you up & give you latest word of Ted & I---thinks we’re engaged (I didn’t bring up what the doorman at the hotel told her about our being married nor did she). We spent one athletic day hiking ten miles back over moors & swamps from Wuthering Heights where I did a sketch in freezing wind & saw musem of Brontes things in old Parsonage---incredible miniature childhood books of a magic kingdom they made up in tiny print with exquisite luminous watercolors---what creative children! Charlotte did the loveliest little watercolors. Will write article about it this week. Have received proof for poem “Pursuit” from Atlantic so it should come out soon---looks terrific, with French quote from Racine and all, from “Phèdre”, meaning, in case anyone asks you: “In the depths of the forests your image pursues me.” Hope I can get novel out within next two years: I’d like best to dedicate the novel to Mrs. Prouty, but wish to dedicate my first book to her, and it may be poems, which I’d rather dedicate to Dr. Beuscher---those two women have been the greatest helps in my life and both I think deserve a book dedication. I shall write Peg Cantor, Marty, Patsy and others as soon as I get back to Cambridge. Shall I tell Peg I’m delighted and touched and accept w
ith joy her offering of the house for the reception? I want to invite everybody to that. Am going to put all my money earned toward my wedding dress, small trousseau, wedding and reception, while Ted will put what he earns toward the rent for our cottage and summer food. If only we can teach at Amherst and Smith! I’d love to live in Amherst and commute to Smith, and pray that it works out. I’ll write Mary Ellen Chase for advice in applying as soon as Ted has his job settled & some things published. She might be able to help me with names. All goes well, Ted and I thrive and plan to work like mad this year to secure a writing Cape summer after a gala wedding & reception and get good twin teaching jobs. Wish us luck & write often –