OCTOBER 20, 1951
Dear Mum,
… The two letters you forwarded were, as you no doubt guessed, from dear old Eddie [Cohen] and a rather unceremonious return of poems from the Saturday Review of Literature. I guess I don’t quite measure up to Edith yet, dear me! The blow was mitigated by the coincident arrival of the most beautiful two-page letter I’ve ever been written. Yes, Constantine did not vanish like a leprechaun with the bubbles in the champagne! I gave him “two weeks.” I found myself writing schoolgirlishly in my notebook: “Dear Constantine: Ever since I danced with you on the lawn under the stars and elm leaves, and talked so intensely about the Georgian tribes, the purpose of life, and the possibility of the world’s end, I have hoped to see you again to renew the enchanting four hour acquaintance we had.” I laughed at myself for such foolishness, and felt that I would never hear from him, that all the delightful perceptive lyrical things we said were a dream, an ephemeral passing of two jaunty sloops in the night.
I’ll bring his letter home when I come. The substance is that he has invited me to come to Princeton on November 3rd. After a first reaction of a loud scream and a sitting suddenly on the floor, I gathered myself together and thought of pros and cons.
Difficulties:
(1) I’ll be going away two weekends in a row. Bad policy for work. (Redeeming factor: This coming weekend at home will be partial rest and work. I am working every minute this weekend. If I do go, I won’t go away again till after Thanksgiving.)
(2) The trip is arduous and expensive. I would leave about 7 Sat. a.m., takes 5 hours or more. (Rationalization: I have spent no money on social life. A prospect like Constantine is a potential. A trip like that is an experience, an emancipation, a new world.)
Now, I am asking you, would you mind my going? I plan to build up into the lovely creature I really am during the next two weeks. It would be my one fling this semester as far as train fare is concerned. Constantine is the one boy I have met … (after Dick) that I could really become greatly interested in. As far as my future life is concerned, doesn’t it bear a whirl?
I run the risk of disillusionment, as does Constantine, of a “beer taste” after a “champagne ambrosia.” Daylight and football games will be a test of sorts to see if the exciting rapprochement of Japanese lanterns and church bells through trees at five in the morning will hold water.
Do write quickly and tell me if you are in favor or not. Wait till you read his letter!! I hope you really like it.
OCTOBER 21, 1951
If maturity consists partly in making judicious and important decisions, then I am more mature than Methuselah. After all the excited business I wrote you about Constantine, I have decided not to go. The factor of decision was that the English written was postponed until Tuesday, November 6. I already had a government written on that Wednesday (7th) which I had thought I could study for Monday and Tuesday. I am really glad that the written was postponed, because it makes my tripping off to Princeton an academic impossibility. Everybody has read Constantine’s letter and is urging me to go. Maybe I’ll marry into Russian society, etc. But wisdom has won the day. I am going to write him a diplomatic letter, suggesting that we arrange to meet soon again. If I do get a chance to see him again, I shall be very happy. If not, I will curse the fate that held so tantalizing a prospect before my eyes and then made me say, “no.” At this stage, it’s hard to decide which is more important—possibilities of future life, or present tasks. A balance is sometimes hard to achieve. There are so many fascinating, intelligent men in the world. I do want to see Eric and Constantine again. I’m so lucky I went to Maureen’s party. Her brother, by the way, just published a book, God and Man at Yale—Will [Bill] Buckley. Her whole family is amazing, terribly versatile and intellectual.
I’m giving up the idea of Mademoiselle this year. Next year I’ll be clever and write it before school begins. As it is, I’m on a treadmill of back work. Feeling really great, though. Mucus only in morning. I love you and Constantine and Smith, and am ricocheting between supreme despair at the one short life I’ve been dealt (and the endless permutations possible. Which to choose?) and dizzy joy at feeling well and making the wise, if unromantic, decision about Princeton.
One thing about sinus—if you feel like a depressive maniac while you have it, there is a renaissance of life when you can breathe again.
Can’t wait to see you Friday.
Love,
Your incorrigible Sivvy
NOVEMBER 3, 1951
Dear Mother,
… I’m enclosing a sonnet composed when I should have been reading the Mass. It’s supposed to be likening the mind to a collection of minute mechanisms, trivial and smooth-functioning when in operation, but absurd and disjointed when taken apart. In other words, the mind as a wastebasket of fragmentary knowledge, things to do, dates to remember, details, and trifling thoughts. The “idiot bird” is to further the analogy of clockwork, being the cuckoo in said mechanism. See what you can derive from this chaos …
Love, Sivvy
SONNET
All right, let’s say you could take a skull and break it
The way you’d crack a clock; you’d crush the bone
Between steel palms of inclination, take it,
Observing the wreck of metal and rare stone.
This was a woman: her loves and stratagems
Betrayed in mute geometry of broken
Cogs and disks, inane mechanic whims
And idle coils of jargon yet unspoken.
Not man nor demigod could put together
The scraps of rusted reverie, the wheels
Of notched tin platitudes concerning weather,
Perfume, politics, and fixed ideals.
The idiot bird leaps up and drunken leans
To chirp the hour in lunatic thirteens.
{Postcard}
FEBRUARY 7, 1952
As you may imagine, I felt pretty low today when I got my [rejection] letter from Seventeen. I hadn’t realized the subconscious support I was getting from thinking of what I would do with my $500. I guess I’ll really have to hit those True Stories. By the way, I suddenly got an inspiration for the “Civic Activities” section of my application blank. I am starting next Monday to teach art to a class of kids at the People’s Institute, volunteer work (make it sound impressive). Next year I hope for either mental or veterans hospital…. I feel suddenly very untalented as I look at my slump of work in art and writing. Am I destined to deteriorate for the rest of my life? … Do write for Dr. Christian. [The radio show had a writing contest.] Every year you will, until you win. You have the background and technical terms. Go to it!
FEBRUARY 28, 1952
I have found a vocational interest. Today our creative writing class heard the president of the Hampshire bookshop speak on the publishing house business. It sounds like just what I want. You teach me shorthand and typing, and I work up in all sorts of jobs (variety of angles—publicity, secretarial, editorial, reading manuscripts, juvenile departments, etc.). I was overwhelmed with enthusiasm; still want to work in veterans hospital, though. But English majoring and Press Board can lead to a practical end. See if you can get any contacts!
MARCH 7, 1952
Maybe your daughter is slightly crazy, maybe she just takes after her illustrious mother, but in spite of the fact she has three wicked writtens next week, she is just now feeling … very virtuous because she refused three weekends this weekend—Frosh Prom at Yale, Junior Prom at Princeton, and a blind date from MIT …
Just finished delivering my best baby yet—a story (only 7 pp.) about a vet with one leg missing and a girl meeting on a train. Dialogue discipline, you know …
I am very excited at being one of the three soph finalists for secretary of Honor Board, one of the big all-campus organizations up here, specially fascinating because it deals with psychological breaking of Honor System….
MARCH 17, 1952
Dearest-Mother-whom-I-love-better-t
han-anybody,
I have so much to tell you I hardly know where to start … I was one of the 16 girls in the college up for the college elections … Unfortunately my good friend and I who were both up for Sec. of Honor Board lost to the third girl …
Friday morning I shot out of here like a bat out of Hades, got off right at the Medical School and ran to Dick. First thing I did was to call you, but you had gone … Dick and I sat and talked and talked and read Hemingway aloud for seven solid hours without even eating….
{Postcard}
APRIL 10, 1952
Got straight A on that old English exam I took way back when, with a “This is an excellent paper” from the august Elizabeth Drew herself! So happy I didn’t go to Princeton. Last night I sat up to type the 16-page story “Sunday at the Mintons’” that I’m sending to Mlle just for fun. You would be interested to see the changes. I made it a psychological type thing, wish-fulfillment, etc. so it wouldn’t be at all far-fetched. Tonight I hear Robert Frost, tomorrow, Senator McCarthy. Also wrote two poems this weekend which I’ll send eventually: “Go Get the Goodly Squab in Goldlobed Corn” … Life is terribly rushed what with Press Board, work, and all these lectures—but fun.
{Sylvia and I were reading Auden, Yeats, and Spender together at this time.}
APRIL 30, 1952
You are listening to the most busy and happy girl in the world. Today is one of those when every little line falls in pleasant places.
… I have just been elected to Alpha Phi Kappa Psi, which is the Phi Beta Kappa of the Arts. So I am one of the two sophs chosen for creative writing ability! We all got single roses and marched out in chapel today. Also, I think I will get at least one sonnet published in the erudite Smith Review this next fall!
… at the first Alpha meeting after lunch today two girls came running up to me and said how would I like to be on the Editorial Board of the Smith Review next year, and my, how they just loved my sonnet: Eva. (What a life!)
… None other than W. H. Auden, the famous modern poet, is to come to Smith next year (along with Vera Michelis Dean) and may teach English, or possibly creative writing! So I hope to petition to get into one of his classes. (Imagine saying, “Oh, yes, I studied writing under Auden!”)
… Honestly, Mum, I could just cry with happiness. I love this place so, and there is so much to do creatively, without having to be a “club woman.” Fie upon offices! The world is splitting open at my feet like a ripe, juicy watermelon. If only I can work, work, work to justify all my opportunities.
Your happy girl,
Sivvy
MAY 12, 1952
Today I got a letter from The Belmont [Summer hotel at Cape Cod] confirming my job. So all is set. Dick is much pleased, too. I really hope I earn a lot of money.
An English major here got a Fulbright this year to study in England after she graduates! Also, the Rotary scholarships are good. Find out anything you can. We will be applying for those in a year or so.
If only I can get all my work done before these exams! I must get good marks in them, plus writing up forty senior personals to all the papers for graduation, and doing each day’s press board, plus keeping up Honor Board work, plus going to showers, dinners, etc. Really, though, I am leading a gloriously country-clubby life in spite of my work. I have at last gotten thinner, and you should see my tan!
Love, Sivvy
THE BELMONT HOTEL, CAPE COD
JUNE 11, 1952
Your amazing telegram [telegram announcing $500 Mademoiselle prize for “Sunday at the Minions’,” which I forwarded] came just as I was scrubbing tables in the shady interior of The Belmont dining room. I was so excited that I screamed and actually threw my arms around the head waitress who no doubt thinks I am rather insane! Anyhow, psychologically, the moment couldn’t have been better. I felt tired—first night’s sleep in new places never are peaceful—and I didn’t get much! To top it off, I was the only girl waitress here, and had been scrubbing furniture, washing dishes and silver, lifting tables, etc. since 8 a.m. Also, I just learned since I am completely inexperienced, I am not going to be working in the main dining room, but in the “side hall” where the managers and top hotel brass eat. So, tips will no doubt net much less during the summer and the company be less interesting. So I was beginning to worry about money when your telegram came. God! To think “Sunday at the Mintons’” is one of two prize stories to be put in a big national slick!!! Frankly, I can’t believe it!
The first thing I thought of was: Mother can keep her intersession money and buy some pretty clothes and a special trip or something! At least I get a winter coat and extra special suit out of the Mintons. I think the prize is $500!!!!!!!!!
ME! Of all people! …
So it’s really looking up around here, now that I don’t have to be scared stiff about money … Oh, I say, even if my feet kill me after this first week, and I drop 20 trays, I will have the beach, boys to bring me beer, sun, and young gay companions. What a life.
Love, your crazy old daughter. (Or as Eddie said: “One hell of a sexy dame”!)
x x x Sivvy
JUNE 12, 1952
No doubt after I catch up on sleep, and learn to balance trays high on my left hand, I’ll feel much happier. As it is now, I feel stuck in the midst of a lot of loud, brassy Irish Catholics, and the only way I can jolly myself is to say, “Oh, well, it’s only for a summer, and I can maybe write about them all.” At least I’ve got a new name for my next protagonist—Marley, a gabby girl who knows her way around but good. The ratio of boys to girls has gotten less and less, so I’ll be lucky if I get tagged by the youngest kid here. Lots of the girls are really wise, drinking flirts. As for me, being the conservative, quiet, gracious type, I don’t stand much chance of dating some of the cutest ones … If I can only get “in” as a pal with these girls, and never for a minute let them know I’m the gentle intellectual type, it’ll be O.K.
As for the Mlle news, I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet. I felt sure they made a mistake, or that you’d made it up to cheer me. The big advantage will be that I won’t have to worry about earning barely $300 this summer. I would really have been sick otherwise. I can’t wait till August when I can go casually down to the drug store and pick up a slick copy of Mlle, flip to the index, and see ME, one of two college girls in the U.S.!
Really, when I think of how I started it over spring vacation, polished it at school, and sat up till midnight in the Haven House kitchen typing it amidst noise and chatter, I can’t get over how the story soared to where it did. One thing about Mlle college fiction—although that great one last year by the Radcliffe girl was tremendous and realistic—I remembered the first issue I read where there were two queer part-fantasies, one about the hotel the woman kept for queer people, and the other about an elderly married couple. So I guess the swing of the pendulum dictated something like good old Henry and Elizabeth Minton. Elizabeth has been floating around in my head in her lavender dress, giggling very happily about her burst into the world of print. She always wanted to show Henry she could be famous if she ever worked at it!
One thing I am partly scared and partly curious about is Dick’s reaction when he reads the story in print. I’m glad Dick hasn’t read it yet, but Henry started out by being him and Elizabeth me (and they grew old and related in the process). But nevertheless I wonder if Dick will recognize his dismembered self! It’s funny how one always, somewhere, has the germ of reality in a story, no matter how fantastic …
I get great pleasure out of sharing it [her feeling about the story] with you, who really understand how terribly much it means as a tangible testimony that I have got a germ of writing ability even if Seventeen has forgotten about it. The only thing, I probably won’t have a chance to win Mlle again, so I’ll try for a guest editorship maybe next year or my senior year, and set my sights for the Atlantic. God, I’m glad I can talk about it with you—probably you’re the only outlet that I’ll have that won’t get tired of my talking ab
out writing …
Speaking again of Henry and Liz, it was a step for me to a story where the protagonist isn’t always ME, and proved that I am beginning to use imagination to transform the actual incident. I was scared that would never happen, but I think it’s an indication that my perspective is broadening.
Sometimes I think—heck, I don’t know why I didn’t stay home all summer, writing, doing physical science, and having a small part-time job. I could “afford” to now, but it doesn’t do much good to yearn about that, I guess. Although it would have been nice. Oh well, I’ll cheer up. I love you.
Your own Sivvy
JUNE 15, 1952
Dear Mother,
… Do write me letters, Mommy, because I am in a very dangerous state of feeling sorry for myself … Just at present, life is awful. Mademoiselle seems quite unreal, and I am exhausted, scared, incompetent, unenergetic and generally low in spirits … Working in side hall puts me apart, and I feel completely uprooted and clumsy. The more I see the main hall girls expertly getting special dishes, fixing shaved ice and fruit, etc., the more I get an inferiority complex and feel that each day in side hall leaves me further behind … But as tempted as I am to be a coward and escape by crawling back home, I have resolved to give it a good month’s trial—till July 10 … Don’t worry about me, but do send me little pellets of advice now and then.
JUNE 17, 1952
Dear Mum,
… It’s my week’s anniversary here, and I am celebrating the beautiful blue day by spending my morning hour … down on the beach. Needless to say, I am in a little more optimistic mood than when I last wrote you … The characters around here are unbelievable, and I already have ideas churning around in my head. One learns so much by keeping quiet and listening. I hope I’ll be able to really get a lot of story material out of this. At least I’ll be able to spout authentic dining hall lingo and thereby give a semblance of reality and background. Chin up and take it easy.