“My head is bloody, but unbowed,”
May children’s bones bedeck my shroud.
x x 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.
AUGUST 4, 1951
In spite of getting in at 2 o’clock this morning, I arose before eight and whipped up breakfast per usual … The occasion last night was a double date for a “beach party” with Marcia…. 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 …
My boy liked skiing better than anything else in the world, but he was so gifted in all physical attributes—such as swimming, football, 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…. 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.
Love, Sivvy
AUGUST 11, 1951
Dear Mummy,
I can’t tell you how much our stay at 26 Elmwood [home] meant to me this last Tuesday. You did a faultless job at having the house clean-swept 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 relatively 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 …
AUGUST 17, 1951
[Cooking automatic now; children amenable.]
… I really am enjoying myself, especially since I got those wonderful pastels. Already, I’ve done a big, full-sized self-portrait which came out sort of yellowish and sulky, but the face isn’t bad at all. Quite traditional. Thought that when I get home, I could cut it down. I love the hard pastels—much more precise than the soft and cleaner cut. Only thing I’ve got to get over is the “rubbing” habit. I liken it to putting too much pedal on a sloppily played piano piece—it only serves to blur mistakes. Next subject: Freddie. He’s the only one around here who can sit still. [Pen-and-ink drawings of all three children accompanied “As a Baby-Sitter Sees It” in the Christian Science Monitor.]
AUGUST 22, 1951
Dear Mum,
Dick has come and gone again, and this time our encounter was sane and rained upon.
As soon as Dick came, before noon, a clap of thunder … and it began to pour. We ended up by cooking and eating at Lane’s house. The afternoon was spent in biking to Castle Rock and Marblehead, getting soaked by another shower and finishing our food by a roadside in the car. Not quite what I had planned. However …
Dick left at seven, and I felt the sudden need for some vicious activity, no doubt to get rid of a few months of physically barren living. Even a regular cadence of weekend dating provides enough male friction or magnetism, taken in small doses, at a distance. And that system can cope with this emotional business….
… I wondered what on earth I could do, standing in my room alone. Finally I had it! I looked at the angry gray ocean, darkening in late twilight. So I put on my bathing suit and ran barefoot down to the beach. It is a queer sensation to swim at night, but it was very warm after the rain, so I splashed and kicked and the foam was strangely white in the dark. After I staggered out, I put on my sweatshirt and alternately ran and walked the length of the beach and back.
As I walked into the house, my purpose accomplished, I said goodnight to the M.’s who gasped, “You went swimming alone?”
They must think I’m crazy, what with never having a date, reading every spare minute and going to bed early. But what the heck do I care. They leave on the cruise in three days, and I’ll be on my own for the rest of my time here.
So-o-o, only about twelve more days … There is so much I want to do and so little time to do it in!
x x Sivvy
AUGUST 24, 1951
… I finally know definitely that I will be home on Monday, the third of September … I feel I owe myself a brief respite of leisure and no rushing around. Heaven knows I have enough to do with the Cape job-hunting prospect, the driving appointment, the 10-minute speech [to give before the Wellesley Smith Club] and the few stories that I must write.
What do you think of the following merely descriptive lines:
The acid gossip of the caustic wind,
The wry pucker of the lemon-colored moon,
And the sour blinking of the jaundiced stars …
Or have I degenerated horribly in my verbal expression?
x x x Sivvy
{Note on back of envelope}
Caution: To be read at leisure, sitting down—in a good light—slowly—[All the girls at Haven House were invited to Maureen Buckley’s coming-out party.]
SHARON, CONNECTICUT
OCTOBER 8, 1951
Dear Mother,
How can I ever, ever tell you what a unique, dreamlike and astounding weekend I had! Never in my life, and perhaps never again, will I live through such a fantastic twenty-four hours. Like years, it seems—so much of my life was involved.
As it is, I’ll start out with an attempt at time sequence. Saturday afternoon, at 2 p.m., about 15 girls from Smith started out for Sharon [Connecticut]. Marcia and I drew a cream-colored convertible (with three other girls and a Dartmouth boy). Picture me then in my navy-blue bolero suit and versatile brown coat, snuggled in the back seat of an open car, whizzing for two sun-colored hours through the hilly Connecticut valley! The foliage was out in full tilt, and the hills of crimson sumac, yellow maples and scarlet oak that revolved past—the late afternoon sun on them—were almost more than I could bear.
At about 5 p.m. we rolled up the long drive to “The Elms.” God! … Great lawns and huge trees on a hill, with a view of the valley, distant green cow pastures, orange and yellow leaves receding far into blue-purple distance.
A caterer’s truck was unloading champagne at the back. We walked through the hall, greeted by a thousand living rooms, period pieces, rare objects of art everywhere. On the third floor (every room was on a different level) most of the girls slept. Marcia and I and Joan Strong (a lovely girl, daughter of a former headmaster of Pomfret) had the best deal. We lived across the way at “Stone House,” a similar mansion. Marcia and I had a big double bed and bath to ourselves in a room reminiscent of a period novel, with balconies, gold drapes, and another astounding view. We lay down under a big quilt for an hour in the gray-purple twilight, conjecturing about the exciting, unknown evening fast coming.
Joan, Marcia, and I were driven in a great black Cadillac by one of the Buckley chauffeurs to the Sharon Inn where a lovely buffet supper was prepared for the 20–30 girls. After supper, Marcia, Joan, and I skipped and ran along the lovely dark moonlit road to our mansion. Another hour of lying down (reminding me of Scarlett O’Hara before the ball) and then the dressing. I struck up a delightful conversation (while ironing my black formal) with the Filipino houseboy.
Again the chauffeur. Up the stone steps, under the white colonial columns of the Buckley home. Girls in beautiful gowns clustered by the stair. Everywhere there were swishes of taffeta, satin, silk. I looked at Marcia, lovely in a lilac moiré, and we winked at each other, walking out in the patio. Being early, we had a chance to look around. The patio was in the center of the house, two stories high, with the elm treetops visible through the glas
sed-in roof. Remember Mrs. Jack’s patio? [Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum, Boston, Mass.] The same: vines trailing from a balcony, fountains playing, blue glazed tiles set in mosaic on the floor, pink walls, and plants growing everywhere. French doors led through a tented marquee built out on the lawn…. Two bars and the omnipresent waiters were serving champagne. Balloons, Japanese lanterns, tables covered with white linen—leaves covered ceiling and walls. A band platform was built up for dancing. I stood open-mouthed, giddy, bubbling, wanting so much to show you. I am sure you would have been supremely happy if you had seen me. I know I looked beautiful. Even daughters of millionaires complimented my dress.
About 9:30 we were “announced” and received. There was a suspenseful time of standing in fluttering feminine groups, waiting for the dancing to begin, drinking the lilting, bubbling, effervescent champagne. I began to wish I had brought a date, envying the initial security of the girls that had, wondering if I could compete with all the tall, lovely girls there.
Let me tell you, by the end of the evening, I was so glad I hadn’t hampered my style by a date and been obligated like the girls who did.
I found myself standing next to a bespectacled Yale Senior. (The whole Senior class at Yale was there—it was just about All-Yale to All-Smith!)
Maureen’s brother is a senior. (Ten children in the Catholic family, all brilliant, many writers!)
I decided I might as well dance instead of waiting for a handsome man to come along. The boy was … a scholarship Philosophy major, admitting a great inferiority complex. We got talking over champagne, and I had just about convinced him that he should be a teacher when we went back to dance. “Darn,” I thought, “I can see me bolstering inferiority complexes all night.”
At that point a lovely tall hook-nosed freshman named Eric cut in. We cooled off on a terrace, sitting on a couch, staring up into leaves dramatically lighted. Turned out we both love English. Great deal in common.
Back to floor with Carl [the philosophy major], who asked me to Cornell weekend. I refused: nicely. Eric cut in.
Next I had a brief trot with the Editor of the Yale News. No possibilities there. About then the Yale Whiffenpoofs sang, among whom was one of Dick’s old roommates, who grinned and chatted with me later.
Now, suddenly, a lovely grinning dark-haired boy cut in. “Name?” I asked. The result was a sort of foreign gibberish. Upon a challenge, he produced a card bearing the engraved “Constantine Sidamon-Eristoff” [later a member of the Lindsay administration in New York] …
He was a wonderful dancer and twirled so all I could see was a great cartwheel of colored lights, the one constant being his handsome face. Turned out his father was a general of the Georgian forces in the Russian Caucasus Mountains. He’s a senior at Princeton.
I was interrupted in a wild Charleston (champagne does wonders for my dancing prowess. I danced steps I never dreamed of and my feet just flew with no propulsion of mine) by a tall … boy, who claimed his name was Plato. By that time, I was convinced that everyone was conspiring against me as far as names were concerned. Turned out he really was—Plato Skouras whose father is a Greek—head of 20th Century Fox productions. Plato did the sweetest thing anyone has ever done. In the midst of dancing on the built-up platform amid much gay music, he said, “I have a picture I want to show you.” So we crossed through the cool, leaf-covered patio, the sound of the fountain dripping, and entered one of the many drawing rooms. Over the fireplace was a Botticelli Madonna.
“You remind me of her,” he said.
I was really touched…. I learned later that he has traveled all over the world. Speaks several languages, including Greek … A devout Catholic, I learned that he believes in the Divine Revelation of the Bible and in Judgment Day, etc. You can imagine how much I would like to have really gotten into an intense discussion with him. As it was, I had a lovely dialogue. Imagine meeting such fascinating, intelligent, versatile people! At a party, too.
From there followed a few more incidental people, and, saving best to last, my Constantine. Again he cut in, and we danced and danced. Finally we were so hot and breathless that we walked out on the lawn. The night was lovely, stars out, trees big and dark, so guess what we did—Strauss waltzes! You should have seen us swooping and whirling over the grass, with the music from inside faint and distant.
Constantine and I really talked. I found that I could say what I meant, use big words, say intelligent things to him.
Imagine, on a night like that, to have a handsome, perceptive male kiss your hand and tell you how beautiful you were and how lovely the skin was on your shoulders!
I would have taken it all with several grains of salt had we not gone farther. I came out with my old theory that all girls have lovely hair, nice eyes, attractive features and that if beauty is the only criterion, I’d just as soon tell him to go and pick someone else and let me out.
He said he’d take me home, and so we drove and drove along in the beautiful night. I learned a great deal about him, and he said the most brilliant things. I learned about Jason and the Golden Fleece—the legend having been written about the Georgian people—who were a civilized culture, like China, while the Russians were “still monkeys.” I learned about his ideas of love, childbirth, atomic energy … and so much more.
I asked him what happened when a woman got old and her physical beauty waned, and he said in his lovely liquid voice, “Why she will always be beautiful to the man she married, we hope.”
… when I asked him what I should call him, he told me three names.
“I like Constantine best,” I said. “I like to say it, because of its good sound.”
“I have a dear Grandmother who is 92 years old,” he said, “and she always calls me Constantine. I do believe it’s because she likes the feeling of the name rolling from her tongue.”
He sang for a while, and then the bells struck four o’clock in a church tower. So I asked if I could tell him my favorite poem. I did, and he loved it.
Oh, if you could have heard the wonderful way he talked about life and the world! That is what made me really enjoy the dear remarks he made about me.
Imagine! I told him teasingly not to suffocate in my long hair and he said, “What a divine way to die!” Probably all this sounds absurd and very silly. But I never expressed myself so clearly and lucidly, never felt such warm, sympathetic response. There is a sudden glorying in womanhood when someone kisses your shoulder and says, “You are charming, beautiful, and, what is most important, intelligent.”
When we drove into the drive at last, he made me wait until he opened the door on my side of the car and helped me alight with a ceremonial “Milady …”
“Milord,” I replied, fancying myself a woman from a period novel, entering my castle.
It was striking five when I fell into bed beside Marcia, already asleep. I dreamed exquisite dreams all night, waking now and then to hear the wind wuthering outside the stone walls, and the rain splashing and dripping on the ivy-covered eaves.
Brunch at Buckleys’ at 1 p.m. on a gray, rainy day: About 30–40 of the girls and a few men had the most amazing repast brought in by colored waiters in great copper tureens: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, rolls, preserves, a sort of white farina, coffee, orange juice. Lord, what luxury! Marcia and I left, went back to our mansion and lay snuggled side by side in the great double bed under a warm quilt in the gray afternoon, talking and comparing experiences, glowing with happiness and love for each other and the world!
At 3 p.m. the chauffeur picked us up. Five girls drove back in the big Cadillac. I sat up front beside the driver and wrapped myself in silence for two hours of driving through rain and yellow leaves.
Back here. I can’t face the dead reality. I still lilt and twirl with Eric, Plato, and my wholly lovely Constantine under Japanese lanterns and a hundred moons twining in dark leaves, music spilling out and echoing yet inside my head.
To have had you there in spirit! To have had you see me! I
am sure you would have cried for joy. That is why I am spilling out at such a rate—to try to share as much as I can with you.
I wonder if I shall ever hear from Constantine again. I am almost afraid he was a dream, conjured up in a moment of wishful thinking. I really loved him that evening, for his sharing of part of his keen mind and delightful family, and for listening to me say poetry and for singing—
Ah, youth! Here is a fragmentary bit of free verse. What think you?
gold mouths cry with the green young
certainty of the bronze boy
remembering a thousand autumns
and how a hundred thousand leaves
came sliding down his shoulderblades
persuaded by his bronze heroic reason,
we ignore the coming doom of gold
and we are glad in this bright metal season.
even the dead laugh among the goldenrod.
The bronze boy stands kneedeep in centuries,
and never grieves,
remembering a thousand autumns,
with sunlight of a thousand years upon his lips
and his eyes gone blind with leaves.
Very rough. But I’ve got an evolving idea. Constantine is my bronze boy, although I didn’t know him when I wrote it.
I’ve got to work and work! My courses are frightening. I can’t keep up with them. See you the 19th.
Love,
love,
love,
Sivvy
SMITH COLLEGE
NORTHAMPTON, MASS.
OCTOBER 15, 1951
I finished one story [“The Perfect Set-Up”] for Seventeen, at least, for my first English paper. The due date is again Dec. 15. I’ll bring it home to be typed and notarized on Thanksgiving. I want to wait until she criticizes it, so I can rework it. It’s the one about the two babysitters …