The panther’s tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
CHANNEL CROSSING
On storm-struck deck, wind sirens caterwaul;
With each tilt, shock and shudder, our blunt ship
Cleaves forward into fury; dark as anger,
Waves wallop, assaulting the stubborn hull.
Flayed by spars, we take the challenge up,
Grip the rail, squint ahead, and wonder how much longer
Such force can last; but beyond, the neutral view
Shows, rank on rank, the hungry seas advancing.
Below, rocked havoc-sick, voyagers lie
Retching in bright orange basins; a refugee
Sprawls, hunched in black, among baggage, wincing
Under the strict mask of his agony.
Far from the sweet stench of that perilous air
In which our comrades are betrayed, we freeze
And marvel at the smashing nonchalance
Of nature: what better way to test taut fiber
Than against this onslaught, these casual blasts of ice
That wrestle with us like angels; the mere chance
Of making harbor through this racketing flux
Taunts us to valor. Blue sailors sang that our journey
Would be full of sun, white gulls, and waters drenched
With radiance, peacock-colored; instead, bleak rocks
Jutted early to mark our going, while sky
Curded over with clouds and chalk cliffs blanched
In sullen light of the inauspicious day.
Now, free, by hazard’s quirk, from the common ill
Knocking our brothers down, we strike a stance
Most mock-heroic, to cloak our waking awe
At this rare rumpus which no man can control:
Meek and proud both fall; stark violence
Lays all walls waste; private estates are torn,
Ransacked in the public eye. We forsake
Our lone luck now, compelled by bond, by blood,
To keep some unsaid pact; perhaps concern
Is helpless here, quite extra, yet we must make
The gesture, bend and hold the prone man’s head.
And so we sail toward cities, streets and homes
Of other men, where statues celebrate
Brave acts played out Survives in peace, in war; all dangers
End: green shores appear; we assume our names,
Our luggage, as docks halt our brief epic; no debt
Survives arrival; we walk the plank with strangers.
MARCH 13, 1956
Dearest darling beautiful saintly Mother!!!
Hold on to your hat and brace yourself for a whistling hurricane of happiness! Spring has sprouted early this year, and all the cold doubts and dark fears of winter exploded in a mass of magnificent mail this morning:
MY FULBRIGHT HAS BEEN RENEWED!
Joy, bliss, and how wonderful it comes before my vacation! You must imagine what this does to my peace of mind. I’ve weighed myself and [have been] found wanting so often this hectic term (and often felt no matter how hard I read, I still would never make the grade) that this kind of consecration from the powers that be makes me feel that needed surge of strength to dare and drive through this next and last week of term, tired and discouraged as I’ve been, fighting for a stoic and creative attitude in spite of all frustrations and rejections and conflicts on every side. They are giving me a 12-month allowance to cover as much of the summer as I’m in England, so when you’re here, I hope to be your hostess from the 13th to the 22nd of June! What joy to show you my London, my lovely Cambridge! And not have that worry of money over my head! I am sure my acting and writing has something to do with it, for my academic letters surely weren’t anything more than businesslike; also, my statement of purpose was rather eloquent, and I luckily have the gift of an angel’s tongue when I want to be persuasive! …
… I cannot draw well or write exceptionally, but I feel now so far beyond that perfectionist streak which would be flawless or nothing—now I go on in my happy-go-lucky way and make my little imperfect worlds in pen and on typewriter and share them with those I love. You have no idea how fresh courage came to me through your last letter and those who appreciated my article and drawing. I look ever upward and am in the midst of brilliant, beautiful, talented people. My accomplishments and abilities often seem so small in comparison. I often wonder—“Who am I to teach!” and must be helped to look back and see what a fine career I’ve really had and how far I’ve come in the academic world. I’m with real scholars and, of course, feel ignorant and untutored; but compared with high school, even college, I’m really becoming well read!
Other wonderful news came, too. I am meeting Gordon somewhere in Germany at the beginning of April and we are renting a car and driving through Germany, Austria, Switzerland, to Italy (Venice, Rome in spring, Capri!). Isn’t it like a fairy tale! Mrs. Lameyer wrote me a dear letter, and I am happy, because Gordon and I are so compatible (in a friendly way) that it should be a fine trip! Then he may come to England to visit, too! My vacation plans had depressed me, for I didn’t want to go to Italy alone, and now, I can be truly “alone” when I want, and Gordon, too, because of being together. (Single girls are always having to fight off men in Europe, and it is a bother to travel alone.)
Also I have the brilliant, attractive woman supervisor I wanted for the moralists next term, and if she likes, next year! The one woman I admire at Cambridge! I should grow amazingly by fighting her logically through Aristotle, Plato, through the British philosophers, up to D. H. Lawrence! I always wanted to take philosophy, and here’s my chance! She is a fine woman, young and much admired by the most brilliant dons here. Also, I am probably going to be tutored in German, beginning next term, through the summer here….
Another thing I must mention: you know I am very much in love with Richard. Well, we are both this way, and, knowing this, I can live through much sorrow and pain. I have never felt so celestially holy, for the fury which I have and the power is, for the first time, met with an equal soul. In a way, I must tell you that our community life in Wellesley, which I love and admire like an “Our Town,” has bothered me a bit in this regard, for I feel they could well accept and admire a Gordon, who is physically beautiful and really my match outwardly, I think. But I still feel dubious about my Richard, because I see now through the boyish weakness of his frame and the delicate health and unathletic nature to a soul which is kingly and beautiful and strong. I see it so powerfully that I fear to expose him to the “conventional” world of judgment which I am so much a part of; he is a solitary soul, and I have given him life and faith. Do you understand my dilemma? Gordon has the body, but Richard has the soul. And I live in both worlds. It is hard; both fight now, and the perfectionist in me wants to combine them, but that seems impossible. Do write. Love to all.
Your happy Sivvy!
SUNDAY AFTERNOON
MARCH 18, 1956
Dearest Mother,
It has been a lovely cool spring day, and I walked slowly through green meadows and herds of grazing cows to Granchester for coffee with Gary Haupt, a sweet, if pedantic, Fulbright student from Yale whom I, no doubt, mentioned before, and who saw me through a rather traumatic experience yesterday at the casualty ward of Addenbrooke Hospital, where I seem to be spending a good deal of time lately. I’d gotten some cinder or splinter in my eye Monday and tried to bathe it out, but the itch and hurt got worse and worse. In the midst of the rush of last week’s classes and final supervisions, I chalked it up to a cold in my eye and let it go till yesterday, when I couldn’t eat or sleep because of the irritation. So Gary took me to the doctor. I spent a difficult hour, waiting in the casualty ward for my turn, listening to screams and seeing blood-stained people being wheeled by on stretchers. Finally the doctor examined me and said gravely, “Why didn’t you come in before?” and announced they would have to operate on my eye. Well,
you can imagine my horror. Fortunately, I was in such pain that I would have let them cut it out if only the hurt would stop. The doctor was very kind and gentle and gave me a local anesthetic via drops which made my eye hard as a rock, and then proceeded to take all sorts of gruesome knives and scrapers and cut the imbedded cinder out of the brown part of my eye, while I looked on (couldn’t help it) and babbled about how Oedipus and Gloucester in King Lear got new vision through losing eyes, but I would just as soon keep my sight and get new vision, too. The operation was a success, and I went through the next 24 hours having to give myself eyedrops every hour to heal the hole, so couldn’t sleep all night. Gary was a great help and consolation and stood by me through the long operation and fed me wine and sherry all day and read Thurber aloud while I went through a very painful time as the anesthetic wore off. I’m having a final checkup tomorrow at the hospital, but feel fine now, except for being tired, and the world looks shining as Eden through my healed eyes….
I really had a scare, and, knowing my imagination, you can imagine how gruelling it was to be operated on fully conscious with both eyes open!
I wonder, by the way, if you’d consider being a literary agent for me? It would be so much easier than spending a fortune on postage for heavy Mss. over here. I’m thinking now of my story “The Christmas Heart,” which you have at home and would be so grateful if you would start sending it off now (simply with stamped, self-addressed large manila envelope inside, no letters) to a series of magazines in the order mentioned: when it comes back, just quote me the rejection and send it to the next. I’m going to try writing commercially once again and might as well try the rounds on that story, which is not too bad….
… I am just starting to feel out the markets here, but the slicks printed here are much too rose-colored and improbable to be published at home. I admire the slick market in NYC and find the stories muscular, pragmatic, fine technically and with a good sense of humor. This one [story] is probably too feminine and serious; but please, if it isn’t asking too much, try …
This coming term, I’m going to write. I’d be happiest writing, I think, with a vital husband. If that doesn’t happen for a while, I’ll write while teaching. No more advanced degrees for me. I have no desire to be a critic or scholar.
Amusingly enough, all the scholarly boys I know here think of me as a second Virginia Woolf! Some of them are so idealistic! It’s a wonderful world, and I want to live an active, creative life, giving of my joy and love to others. My love to you, and do let me know how dear grammy is and how Warren’s plans are coming. His program sounds so esoteric! Love from your
bright-eyed Sivvy
TUESDAY NOON
MARCH 20, 1956
Dearest Mother,
I received your lovely letter this morning with the note about the Saxton Fund, which I am coming to believe is exactly the chance I want to devote a year to nothing but writing while living in southern France and Italy. It is possible to write while studying or teaching, but I need an opportunity to concentrate on nothing but for a year to find my style, my voice. I do believe I have one! But the complex life here and the academic demands of my Fulbright make writing too incidental….
Where, by the way, is the money for grammy’s hospital care coming from? I am so lucky here under “the system” for I have to pay nothing for doctor’s or hospital fees, while the British have to pay large weekly amounts [for] insurance. I must say, too, I am happier every day to be an American! For all the golden “atmosphere” of England, there is an oppressive ugliness about even the upper-middle-class homes, an ancient, threadbare dirtiness which at first shocked me. Our little white house is a gem of light and color compared to the dwellings here….
Some day, maybe, I’ll have a home in the Connecticut Valley, lots of children, stories, and Cape Cod summers! …
… Please give my dearest love to grammy; I think of her constantly and wish for her health. She is a saintly woman. Keep a large amount of love for yourself and take good care—I want a rosy, fat mummy to meet me in June!
Love to all,
Sivvy
PARIS, FRANCE
36 RUE DE LILLE
(HOTEL BEARN)
MARCH 26, 1956
Dearest Mother,
Oh, you would never believe it if you saw me now. I have the loveliest garret in Paris, overlooking the rooftops and gables and [an] artists’ skylight! I was marvelously lucky to find a place during the Easter week, because every place is full, and I moved to this room this morning. It costs 520 francs a night, which is roughly $1.50 … I hear music now rising up in the courtyard; the people here are lovely in the hotel, and I am fortunate to have such genial characters running it. They gave me this cheapest room today because they knew I was a student….
Perhaps the hardest and yet best thing for me is that Sassoon is not here; he is still down south on vacation, so except for a possible Cambridge boy I know is coming, I am on my own. As you may imagine, this is very different from being escorted everywhere as I was at Christmas, but I am getting most proud of my ability to maneuver alone. It is good for me, and I am beginning to enjoy it thoroughly….
… Love to all from your Americaine à Paris!
Sylvia
MARCH 28, 1956
Dearest of Mothers,
Eh bien, life gets better and better. I am sitting by my window with the fresh morning air blowing the starched white curtains and with my own special vista of rooftops and chimney pots which I draw daily—it has such good tilts and textures. To me, it is simply beautiful. There is a large green-eyed cat at the window opposite, a tiger cat, who stares at me when I work and plays games of hiding. I am getting to love this city like no other in the world. It is so intimate and warm and kind with its lacy gray stone buildings, hundreds of black wrought-iron balconies, marvelous gardens and parks and little shops, all pastels, and even the peeling walls and colored posters pasted over each other seem exquisite to me.
… I wrote a note to Anthony Gray, the British boy I just met before I left, and he surprised me by coming over that very night with his sister, Sally. I was napping (from about 6–8 p.m.) because I’d walked over ten miles and was weary. It was so nice to wake up and find them. We went out to dinner together and had a good talk. Tony is tall, blond and blue-eyed, and an Oxford man (his father teaches zoology at Cambridge) and very debonair and confident, much the most self-assured fellow, good for fun, but I am sure not for serious talk (so many Englishmen think women become unfeminine when they have ideas and opinions) …
I’m hoping to hear from Gordon any day about when I meet him [to travel in Europe together]. Should be here through Easter.
Love from Sylvia
WHITSTEAD, BARTON ROAD
CAMBRIDGE, ENGLAND
APRIL 17, 1956
Dearest of Mothers,
I am back at Whitstead at last, grateful to rest in peace, to see no more trains or hotel rooms, to stop running. I didn’t get any of your letters all my vacation because of the imbecilic American Express and so felt terribly cut off from all communication for that time and was glad to get back to my calm, daffodil-starred, yet chilly, Cambridge and find mail.
It hurts terribly in my heart not to be home with you all, helping you through this hard hard time with grammy. I cannot believe that I will never see her again and wish that you would make as much effort as you can to give her some of the power of the love I have for her. I feel so cut off, and all my strength so futile here. I love that woman so, and all of you, and would give anything to share the sorrow and the adoration for dear grammy in the community of our family and our neighborhood.
Most of all, I am concerned for you. Will grampy live with [Aunt] Dot and [Uncle] Joe this summer? Because you must come to England….
I have been having a rather strenuous time, myself, of late, and much to deal with. Richard went off to Spain for a month and was miserable alone and wrote long letters which I didn’t receive till I got back here, too late,
after feeling terribly deserted in Paris that last week….
[Traveling with] Gordon was also a mistake. I should know by now that there is always bound to be a hidden rankling between the rejector and rejected. In spite of this I managed to enjoy much, although fighting a great sorrow and preferring to be alone …
We left Paris for Munich where I froze in a blizzard, and Gordon’s utter lack of language ability … horrified me … We left the next morning … through Austria and the Tyrolean Alps. I sat with my nose pressed to the window and almost cried as we went through Innsbruck [my cousin, Gregor Resch, lives there].
Now back to recuperate, write, work. I am writing for the college newspaper and should have some sketches and an article on Paris in this week. God, it’s good to get back to newsprint and an office! I think I’ll get along fine; all very nice, honest guys.
The most shattering thing is that in the last two months I have fallen terribly in love, which can only lead to great hurt. I met the strongest man in the world, ex-Cambridge, brilliant poet whose work I loved before I met him, a large, hulking, healthy Adam, half French, half Irish [and a good deal of Yorkshire farming stock, too], with a voice like the thunder of God—a singer, story-teller, lion and world-wanderer, a vagabond who will never stop… Forgive my own talk of hurt and sorrow. I love you so and only wish I could be home to help you in yours.
All my love—
sivvy
APRIL 19, 1956
Dearest Mother,
I have not heard from you in several days and wish with all my heart that these times are not trying beyond endurance….
I shall tell you now about something most miraculous and thundering and terrifying and wish you to think on it and share some of it. It is this man, this poet, this Ted Hughes. I have never known anything like it. For the first time in my life I can use all my knowing and laughing and force and writing to the hilt all the time, everything, and you should see him, hear him! …