Now don’t you all feel helpless any more. I am helped very much by letters, the birthday checks.
Love to all,
Sivvy
LONDON, ENGLAND
NOVEMBER 7, 1962
Dear Mother,
I am writing from London, so happy I can hardly speak. I think I have found a place. I had resigned myself to paying high sums for a furnished place for the winter while I looked for an unfurnished one with a longish lease that I could then furnish and let for fabulous rates in spring and summer while I was [in Devon]. By an absolute fluke I walked by the street and the house (with Primrose Hill at the end) where I’ve always wanted to live. The house had builders in it and a sign, “Flats to Let”; I flew upstairs. Just right (unfurnished), on two floors with three bedrooms upstairs, lounge, kitchen and bath downstairs and a balcony garden! Flew to the agents—hundreds of people ahead of me, I thought, as always. It seems I have a chance! And guess what, it is W. B. Yeats’ house—with a blue plaque over the door, saying he lived there! And in the district of my old doctors and in the street [where] I would want to buy a house if I ever had a smash-hit novel.
I am now waiting for the tedious approval of the owner and for my references to go through. Ted is behind me in this; he took me round looking at places. Now he sees he has nothing to fear from me—no scenes or vengefulness …
I am now staying with a wonderful Portuguese couple, the girl a friend of Ted’s girl friend, and they see how I am, full of interest in my own life, and are amazed, as everyone is, at my complete lack of jealousy or sorrow. I amaze myself. It is my work that does it, my sense of myself as a writer, which Mrs. Prouty above all understands. My hours of solitude in my study are my most precious, those, and the hours I spend with my darling babies. I am, I think, and will be when I get this London flat (I hope) arranged, the happiest of women …
I am so happy and full of fun and ideas and love. I shall be a marvelous mother and regret nothing. I have two beautiful children and the chance, after this hard, tight year, of a fine career—schools and London in winter, [the house in Devon], daffodils, horse riding and the beautiful beaches for the children in summer. Pray for this flat coming through. I would try to get a 5-year lease. Then, in five years, I hope to be rich enough to buy a house in London, rent flats at the bottom and live at the top, rent my furnished part in summer—so easy here, it is a sure income. I have real business sense. I am just short of capital right now. I would be right around the corner from Katherine Frankfort, etc., whom I’m so fond of, by the Hill, by the Zoo—minutes from BBC! And in the house of a famous poet, so my work should be blessed. Even if I don’t get this place, I should be able to get one like it near it sooner or later. It’s about time my native luck returned! And I have, on the advice of Katherine Frankfort, applied for an au pair girl, preferably German. They get only two pounds (about $5) a week, plus board and room, and are students, wanting to be part of the family. They would mind the babies mornings and study at classes afternoons and babysit nights with one day off. Just what I want—for I want to devote myself to the babies afternoons myself, take them to teas and visits and walks.
Mrs. Prouty called me. I was thrilled. I am dedicating my second book of poems (almost done) to Frieda and Nicholas in England … I’ll dedicate it to her in America if it gets taken there.
I have found a fabulous hairdresser … —Doctor Webb’s wife, of whom I’m very fond, told me of her. I had my fringe cut just before I came up to London in the most fashionable style—high on top, curling down round the ears—and kept my long coronet in back. It looks fabulous and the cut, shampoo and set was only $1.50. From the front I look to have short hair, and from the back, a coronet … Ted didn’t even recognize me at the train station! My morale is so much improved—I did it on your cheque. Men stare at me in the street now; I look very … fashionable. Now I shall get a Christmas dress for myself with the rest of the money. I hope to be able to move up here before Christmas. I shall get toys for Frieda and Nick with your money at Hamley’s.
When I appear at the Royal Court this summer, I shall be a knock-out. My haircut gives me such new confidence, truck drivers whistle, and so on, it’s amazing. I am so happy back in London; and when I came to my beloved Primrose Hill, with the golden leaves, I was full of such joy. That is my other home, the place I am happiest in the world besides my beloved [house in Devon].
If I get the lease now, I should be able to write for five years and save up to buy a house there, and then the children would have the best of both worlds.
Living apart from Ted is wonderful—I am no longer in his shadow, and it is heaven to be liked for myself alone, knowing what I want. I may even borrow a table for my flat from Ted’s girl—I could be gracious to her now and kindly. She has only her high-paid ad agency job, her vanity … and everybody wants to be a writer … I may be poor in bank funds, but I am so much richer in every other way, I envy them nothing. My babies and my writing are my life and let them have affairs and parties, poof! … Love to Warren and Maggie. Wish me luck.
Sivvy
NOVEMBER 19, 1962
Dear Mother,
Thanks for your good letter. I haven’t written sooner because I have been fantastically busy. My correspondence alone would keep a full-time secretary going—I’ve had letters from a physiotherapist asking for a copy of a poem about living in a plaster cast to read to her patients and just now a fan letter from an Australian gynecologist who heard from a “colleague in London” about my maternity ward poem for three voices on the BBC and wanted a copy as he’d done a life-long study on miscarriages. I am thrilled. The medical profession has always intrigued me most of all, and the hospital and doctors and nurses are central in all my work. I’m hoping to get my dear Susan O’Neill-Roe to take me into her Children’s Hospital when we’re both in London.
Just now is “one of those weeks”—Susan has a week off in London, my local babysitter is out with flu, Nancy is moving from one house to one next door and all three of us have colds. In spite of it, I am happier than ever before in my life….
Well, I have finished a second book of poems in this last month—30 new poems—and the minute I get a mother’s helper in London, I will do novel after novel. Even in the greatest worry and adversity, … I have discovered it [her own talent] in time to make something of it.
I took Mrs. Prouty’s first check, as she said to, and went to the Jaeger shop in Exeter. It is my shop. I bought an absolutely gorgeous camel suit … and matching camel sweater, a black sweater, black and heavenly blue tweed skirt, dark-green cardigan, red wool skirt, and in St. Ives got a big pewter bracelet, pewter hair clasp, pewter earrings and blue enameled necklace. All my clothes dated from Smith, were yards too long and bored me to death. I am going to get a new black leather bag, gloves, and shoes and just take my new things to London. I feel like a new woman in them and go each week to have my hair shampooed and set in neighboring Winkleigh for under $1! My new independence delights me. I have learned from Nancy how to keep the big coal stove going in the kitchen, and it is heavenly, heats all the water, dries all the clothes immediately and is like the heart of the house—even Ted couldn’t keep it going overnight … I love [the house] and am going to see that gradually my dream of it comes true….
I am in an agony of suspense about the flat. I was first on the list of applicants! Already I have met an offer for 50 pounds more a year, now they have sent out for my “references”; in other words, to solicitor, banker, accountant, to see if I can afford it, I had the uncanny feeling I had got in touch with Yeats’ spirit (he was a sort of medium himself) when I went to his tower in Ireland. I opened a book of his plays in front of Susan as a joke for a “message” and read, “Get wine and food to give you strength and courage, and I will get the house ready.” Isn’t that fantastic?
I would have to get a stove and new furnishings. Then I could rent it out by the week at fantastic rates in the summer when I was [in Devon] and almost cover the yea
r’s rent! …
I will die if my references say I’m too poor! Living in Yeats’ house would be an incredibly moving thing for me.
I didn’t tell you of my thumb—it’s now healed—because Dr. Webb made a botch of it. It is now deformed, because he did not put a proper bandage on it or even a tape to hold the top in place, nor look at it for ten days … I went back to my darling Regent Street doctor, who fixed it properly, as much as he could. He saved the top, although the side is gone …
Have some fascinating historical biographies from the New Statesman to review; am sending the almost full-page children’s book review to Mrs. Prouty. Got $50 from Dot—bless her; will write her.
Love to all,
Sivvy
THANKSGIVING DAY, 1962
Dear Mother,
It is perfect Thanksgiving weather—how I miss that holiday! I’ll have chicken fricassee today. Susan comes back tonight, thank God. It has been absolute hell … me with a bad cold, unimproved by having to lug coal buckets and ash bins … It is enough to drive me up the wall.
I am desperate to get the flat. I called up today and found they were boggling over my “recent” references—only good for the last eighteen months. So I gave your name (Professor A. S. Plath) as a guarantor and security and offered to pay the year’s rent in advance out of sheer impatience. I hope you don’t mind and will put on a good front for the agents if they write you. I have so much against me—being a writer, the ex-wife of a successful writer, being an American, young, etc., etc. This was my one lucky break—finding this flat—and I’ve got to get it. I simply can’t get help here in the country; and the minute they sense they are really needed, like this week, they desert. Besides, they are lazy bastards. I work like a navvy day-in day-out without rest or holiday, and they sit and watch “telly.” I am dying to be able to work at writing, and now I am just up to my ears with this coming move and haven’t time to write at all.
I have written Mrs. Prouty, yesterday, enclosing a copy of my children’s book review, telling her about the lovely Jaeger clothes I bought with her first cheque and asking if I may dedicate this second [third] novel I am desperate to finish this winter to her, as she has been such a great help and knows what I am working against.
This year will be the hardest financially in my life (I hope) as I have to make bold and considered investments, as in this flat, in order to enable me to work toward a future …
It is so frustrating to feel that with time to study and work lovingly at my books I could do something considerable, while now I have my back to the wall and not even time to read a book. So anything I may turn out just now is merely potboiling …
Love,
Sivvy
NOVEMBER 29, 1962
Dear Mother,
I was so glad to have your letter saying you got my letter. I think I will get the flat and hope to move in about December 17. They are at the “draft-contract” stage; it is all so slow and Dickensian … The chance at this place (I’ll take a 5-year lease) is fantastic. It is like a weird dream come true. My dream is to sell a novel to the movies and bribe the owner to sell me the house; I want that house. I am sending back your bank book; I shall have no need for it and no need to use it as security for the flat …
I am back with my panel of blessed, excellent doctors. I can’t wait. I have been culture-starved so long, utterly alone, that these last weeks are a torture of impatience. Winifred has been wonderful. I had her and her son Garnett over for a very special dinner last night, Sue here as well. Everybody had a lovely time …
When I get safely into this flat, I shall be the happiest person in the world. I shall apply immediately for a live-in mother’s help and get cracking on my novel. I hope to finish it by the date of that contest you sent information of; even if I don’t win, which I won’t, it will be an incentive. This experience, I think, will prove all for the best—I have grown up amazingly. Did I say I was taking out the policy on Ted’s life because if I pay, I get about 10 thousand pounds at the end of 30 years if he lives. I’ll need a pension of some sort, and this is the only way I can think of doing it …
… Stunned to get a check for about $700 from Aunt Dot today…. I just burst into tears at her sweet letter, I was so moved by that and the story of the check. [Dorothy’s “before-marriage” savings had been put into U.S. Series E bonds with the intention of keeping them for “something very special.” She wrote that she felt Sylvia was just that.] … Once I am in London … working, I expect to be self-sufficient … I’ll be in London again this week to arrange a stove, straw mats, phone, etc., for the flat, and to see a man for lunch about a reading at an Arts Centre in Stevenage—the man I am working with for the Royal Court Theatre Night put him in touch with me. Once I get started, I should be able to get lots of speaking engagements. It will be lovely to have both Susan and Garnett in London and coming to tea…. I am so fond of them both.
My solicitor is gathering the evidence necessary for a Divorce Petition. I think there should be no trouble as Ted is very cooperative …
… I am very smug at a review of the most fascinating book I’ve just done—Lord Byron’s Wife. I am very lucky to get it; it costs $6.50, a fortune here, and all the big papers have already given it full-page treatment. I’ve been asked to do it for the New Statesman by a friend of ours who is literary editor and who knew I’d love to get my hands on it … Shall send this to Mrs. Prouty, too. Have asked if I can dedicate my second novel to her—the one I hope to finish this winter. Hope she agrees. Don’t worry about my paying bills. I pay them immediately; always have.
Love to all,
Sylvia
In December she closed the large house in Devon and moved with the children to a flat in Yeats’s former home in London, where, for a brief time, she responded excitedly to the cultural stimulation of the city. Then the worst cold, snowstorms, and blackouts in over a hundred years engulfed London for months; Sylvia fought off flu; the children had coughs and colds.
In spite of all this, she continued the writing she had started in Devon. She began at 4 A.M. each morning to pour forth magnificently structured poems, renouncing the subservient female role, yet holding to the triumphant note of maternal creativity in her scorn of “barrenness.”
Feeling she needed a backlog of funds to prepare for the sterile periods every writer dreads, she had earlier sent out The Bell Jar for publication, stipulating that it appear under a pseudonym in the firm belief that this would fully protect her from disclosure.
By the time the novel appeared in the London bookstores, she was ill, exhausted, and overwhelmed by the responsibilities she had to shoulder alone—the care of the children, the bitter cold and darkness of the winter, and the terrible solitude she faced nightly.
Sylvia and Frieda in Devon, December 1962
Sylvia and Nick, December 1962
Despite the strong support of her friends, her sure knowledge of the importance of her new writing, her deep love for the children, supportive letters from her beloved psychiatrist Dr. B., the hope of a reconciliation with Ted, and endless offers from her family to help her weather her crisis—her tremendous courage began to wear thin.
FITZROY ROAD
LONDON, ENGLAND
DECEMBER 14, 1962
Dear Dotty,
It was so wonderful to hear your voice over the phone, sounding just as if you were next door!* I was so excited about getting the flat—everybody says it was a miracle, including my solicitor—and here I am, in my favorite house in my favorite neighborhood, happy as a clam! The children are thrilled, too. Frieda has been dying to go to the Zoo, two minutes away, and I took her and Nick day before yesterday. She was fascinated by the owls that “had bottoms just like Frieda,” the lions, the new baby elephant and the penguins swimming round. She is such fun, such company, and Nick is the sturdiest, handsomest little boy imaginable; he just laughs and chuckles all the time. They are so good. I put them into the same cot in the morning, and all I hear is la
ughs till I’ve got breakfast. I am dying to take them round to all my old friends here, all of whom have had new babies. It is like a village—so many shop people remembered me and welcomed me back! It is heaven to be surrounded by people and to know as soon as I get my phone, I’ll have all sorts of friends dropping round and be able to go out. Imagine, I’ve not seen a movie for two years! I am just starved for fun and chat. The country is lovely in spring and summer, but my work and dearest friends are in London.
Already I have two BBC broadcasts to do and a poetry reading and then this big American poetry night to [be] produced at one of the most famous theatres here this spring, a real great job. I am delighted you think I have an English accent, Dotty. Everybody over here thinks I come from the Deep South; they think my American accent is so broad!
I am now in the little limbo between mother’s helps. My dear nurse saw me through to a day after my move and then went on a deserved holiday before she starts work as an operating threatre nurse at a children’s hospital near here this January … I love her like a younger sister for what she’s been through with me. I was in London all through the smog, making the final arrangements for a gas stove, electricity to be connected, a phone (which will take ages here) and signing the lease. It was incredible [the fog], thick white for five days. You couldn’t see your hand before your face and you can imagine what it was to get around. All the busses were stopped at one point. But I did it. And then I came home and in four days did all the packing and closing up … —you can imagine what that involved! I spent a day stringing all my onions and brought a load up with a load of my own potatoes, apples, honey, and holly. I am very proud of my gardening and hope to plant a lot of stuff next spring down there, too, and keep my bees going.